A Friend In Need
by RyderBPD
Summary: *#3* In the wake of Angell's death, Liz comes down from Boston to help Flack process his grief. She assists the CSI team with a complex case--and stays by Flack's side through his slain love's funeral. Rated T for language.
1. Friday

A Friend In Need

**Author's Note:** This story takes place in the days immediately following Detective Jessica Angell's death. . .I wanted to give Angell a decent funeral and to showcase the utter grief Flack must have felt.

The story also features Liz Ryder, the BPD officer-turned shrink present in "Nor'easter" and "Full Disclosure." Enjoy!

* * *

**Friday**

I was sitting at my desk in the midst of BPD's Friday madness when the call came. In true Liz fashion, I had a case file's contents spread all over the office floor and stuck to the full-wall whiteboard adjacent to my desk. Chief Fitz had handed me a fun one today--some guy killing university kids around Boston. At Bay State College he was The Angel, rounding up three women he knew to be virgins after attending a few campus Christian group meetings. Suffocating the girls with feather pillows, he then took the feathers and fastened them to their backs to create crude wings. Bringing his victims to the rooftop of the Old South Church in Copley Square, he nailed them up naked (but for loincloths around their hips) on crosses with their arms outstretched, looking for all the world like they were waiting for God to take them home. Each young woman had "The Angel" written in white paint across her abdomen.

By contrast, at UMass he'd branded himself The Devil, committing a crime apparently meant to expose excess and greed. He'd lured three guys out of a frat party with the promise of coke, and after they passed out from the sedatives he put in the blow proceeded to drown each of them in apple-bobbing sized tubs of beer, wine and vodka. Death by PBR. Yech. All three kids had "The Devil" scrawled across their backs in blood when they were found the next morning.

_Good lord_, I thought. _I gotta start charging consulting fees_. _These dudes are getting crazier by the day_. Kudos to the Boston blues for deducing that The Devil and The Angel were one and the same, though. For a while we thought he was two separate sickos until a handwriting analysis proved otherwise. Now it was my job to further examine the killer's psyche and try to determine what his next move might be--and, for that matter, if he truly believed himself to be both Lucifer and Gabriel or if the two were just roles he was putting on--like murderous Halloween costumes. I didn't really believe the second option to be true, though. The nature and severity of the crimes were just too symbolic to be the work of another cookie-cutter killer. _How interesting it is_, I mused, _that these criminals who go to the extremes of a spectrum are usually so ordinary in normal appearance_. This one seemed to be suffering from a kind of personality purgatory, if you will. . .needing to compensate for a void in his life with the certainty of omnipotent judgment and damnation.

Anyway, it was about 1 PM when the Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow" sang out from my phone. I picked myself up off the floor, stretched a little bit, and smiled when I saw the name that had popped up on the caller ID. Don Flack.

Flack and I had met two years earlier, when I went down to NYC to assist the CSI team with a complicated psychological case. Mike Craig was the perp's name--serial killer and rapist with five distinct personalities. The good Detective and I initially had a few verbal scraps over my interrogation methods, but our mutual love of hockey overtook stubbornness one night and we'd had some fun together after a Rangers/Bruins game. Although we knew a relationship between a Bostonian and a New Yorker both in love with their respective cities would never work, we stayed in touch, and every now and then we'd met up for some good wine usually followed by great sex.

That, though, all changed when Flack started seeing Jessica Angell, a fellow NYPD Detective with killer legs and a wit to match. But hey, no jealousy on my part--I was incredibly happy for my friend, as his demeanor had changed drastically since Jess had come into his life. He'd apparently met her ol' man, and she was helping him rebuild his relationship with his sister Sam. Flack had even confessed to me that although it sounded crazy (because they hadn't officially been together long), he was thinking of asking Angell to move in with him. There was no doubt about it: Jess' smile had brought rays of sunlight streaming into Flack's world, and I could tell he truly loved her. I often teased him about the joy I could hear in his voice during our weekly sports rivalry phone call.

It was, in fact, this good-natured ribbing I was expecting when I flipped open my black Razr, so I got a head start.

"Let's see, Flack, which do I want to pick for my favorite Yankee Fuck-Up Moment of the week? The boos raining down on Burnett from Jays fans or Swisher's airmailed throw against the O's?"

Instead of Flack's sarcastic baritone, though, a weary and slightly confused-sounding woman's voice came from the other end of the line.

"Liz?" she said. "It's Lindsay Monroe. Do you have a minute?"

"For you, honey, I've got hours," I replied. "How's Danny? And little Lucy?"

"We're all fine," she said. "Or at least we were until yesterday. I've got some awful news, Liz, and there's no way to sugar coat it--Jess is dead."

I sucked my breath in sharply as the acidic taste of shock seared my lungs. For police officers, there's a special sort of pain that accompanies the loss of one of our own--and it cuts even deeper when you personally know the one that made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. I was just now feeling what the NY crew had been steeped in for 24 hours. . .and Flack, I thought, must be feeling it worst of all.

"Oh, shit," I managed to utter as I sank into my desk chair. "What happened?"

I listened, seething, as Lindsay gave me the awful details. I could almost hear the sickening crash of the cafe's glass as the windows exploded from the force of the truck's grill. Dunbrook's confused screams and the murmuring of customers as they hit the floor and prayed. And the horrible thumps of those Desert Eagle .50 slugs slamming into Jess' beautiful body. Fighting back tears, I turned to the trusted friends that had gotten me through so many senseless killings in the past: Information. Logic. The next step.

"Did you guys nail the bastards that did this?" I asked, struggling to keep the anger out of my voice.

"We tracked down and took out the four perps who pulled off the job, and that seemed like the end of it. But then last night as we were toasting Jess' memory, somebody drove by and shot up the bar we were in. Everyone's okay, more or less," she said, quickly. "Stella took one in the shoulder and we all sustained cuts from the shattered glass, but everybody made it out alive. Anyway, as you might guess, we're thinking that this is more than a kidnapping gone wrong."

I continued to fume internally. So much unnecessary death in this world, and it was once again affecting people I cared about. God, what if Danny and Lindsay had been killed in the drive-by? Lucy would've been orphaned in an instant.

"What can I do to help?" I found myself saying, almost robotically.

"Well, that's why I'm calling from Flack's phone," she explained. "I didn't have your number. Danny and I are here at Don's place (because the chief told him to take a day off) and we're pretty worried. The whole team's shaken up, but Flack's hurting more than all of us combined. I've never seen him like this before, Liz, and I was thinking that he could really benefit from your experience with psychological trauma. He needs friends, and we'll be here for him, but I think he needs something more to help him heal."

"I'll catch the next plane to New York," I said, without hesitating. "Can you and Danny stay with him until I get there?"

"Sure. Lucy and I can stick around. Danny's got to head back to the lab--he and Hawkes are working on the murder of a college student. Strange religious theme to the case. I really appreciate your coming, Liz. Do you want to talk to Flack?"

"No, it's best if we interact face-to-face," I said, trying not to sound too clinical. "Trying to discern his true emotional state over the phone would mean too many gaps in the information I need. I mean, we all know Flack's the king of facial expressions, right?"

Lindsay let out a little laugh. "Right."

"Just tell him I'll be there soon, but don't make it sound like an intervention or anything. And tell him the Yankees suck."

She agreed to pass on the messages, thanked me again, and hung up. I quickly reassembled the strewn-about files on the Heaven & Hell murders and was about to put them back in my to-do pile when I stopped and shoved them in my briefcase instead. Something about Linds' reference to that student's murder had caught my ear. I then walked briskly down the hall to let the Chief know that I had to leave right away. Upon hearing my reasons for splitting, his face changed from its usual set of river-like scowls to an open sea of sympathy. Sighing deeply, he shook his head.

"I heard about Detective Angell's death this morning," he said. "Didn't know you knew her though. Some days I wish I could just turn that damned regional police scanner off."

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't be as good around here," I countered, sweeping my right arm wide to indicate the buzzing station. "Who would we try to impress if you didn't know everything?"

"All right, Ryder, get your brown-nosing ass outta here," he said with mock irritation. "Take as much time as you need on the island."

"Thanks, Chief."

As I rode home on the Red Line I called my private practice patients scheduled for Monday. I hated canceling on people in need, but so it goes when a shrink's real life rears its small head every now and then. I figured I'd be back by Tuesday anyway.

Upon reaching my little house in Cambridge, I was greeted by a series of little yowls followed by a small head bonking into my shins--it was Jack, my midnight-colored cat. He'd been acting a little cranky lately, so I sat with him for a few minutes and stroked his silky hair as my mind turned back to Flack. _Grief is an overwhelming emotion in any situation_, I thought_, but Don's got multiple levels on which he's mourning right now._ There was the most obvious layer of pain he was feeling as Jess' partner; to have the connection between you and the one you love so suddenly ripped in half is the cruelest form of robbery. . .followed by the cutting out of your heart with a thousand small shards of shattered memories.

Perhaps the more hidden element here, though, was that Jess had been cut down on the job; and Don, while understanding that Jess could take care of herself, might be feeling like he should've gotten there sooner to save her. Maybe he was blaming himself for her death. This was all speculation on my part, though. I had to see Flack and talk to him in order to know what was really going on.

I made a few more phone calls as I was throwing clothes in my suitcase--one to my sister Casey over in Beacon Hill asking her to feed Jack, another to the Globe to stop my paper until I returned (I hate stuff piling up in front of my door), and the last one to JetBlue for my plane reservation. Twenty minutes later I gave Jack a kiss on the top of his head and hopped back on the Red Line, transferring to the Silver Line and finally arriving at Logan.

My flight took about an hour fifteen, and theoretically I could've read or caught up on work, but all I could think about was Flack. I was determined to get him through this as best I could. He had constantly been there for me in the wake of my mom's death last year and I'd never forgotten it.

I touched down at LaGuardia at 3:30, and once I got into the terminal was going to head towards the car rental bays when Dr. Sheldon Hawkes stepped through the crowd and gave me a tired wave. He was impeccably dressed as always, but not even a light purple shirt contrasting with his gorgeous dark skin could mask the sadness radiating from his eyes.

"Hey doc," I said, very much surprised. "What'd I do to deserve such an excellent escort?"

"Hey back atcha, Liz," he said. "Danny told me you were headed down here and I thought I'd save you the trouble of slogging through rush hour traffic. Besides, you know I never miss an opportunity to talk grey matter with you."

I smiled, and indulged Hawkes by launching into a review of my recent research on the way women with depressive disorders experience disruption during their menstrual cycles--a topic not often delved into due to the continued male dominance of the psychiatric field. As we walked through the terminal, though, I made a mental note of the fact that Sheldon had specifically steered our conversation towards the least emotional thing we had in common: medicine. _He's in pain too_, I thought. _They all are, but they're doing their best to keep going_.

Due to his hospital background, Hawkes had an interesting take on the connection between brain chemistry and emotions, and shared a few stories of female patients who'd experienced the frightening quick switch between zombie and raging bitch. I was grateful for the real-life examples and reminded myself to give Mass General a ring for similar data when I got back home.

Traffic onto Manhattan wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be for a Friday evening, and as Hawkes wove his way around everything from Suburbans to scooters I voiced what had been nagging at me since I'd hung up with Lindsay earlier.

"So Linds mentioned something about a case you and Danny are tag-teaming on," I began. "Something about a university kid getting killed?"

"Yeah, we just picked it up yesterday. Some nut used a Fordham University student as his own personal stone tablet. . .branded the poor girl with all 10 commandments and then set her up on a church rooftop--nailed to a cross with her arms outstretched. Not only that, but the student had something written on her stomach in white paint--"

"--'The Angel' in cursive script," I finished.

He gave me an arched eyebrow. "You been takin' up mind reading in your spare time?"

"I wish. Therapy sessions would be wicked shorter that way. But no, either the same guy was gettin' biblical in Boston last week or there's a swarm of religious duality murderers touring the Northeast," I explained. "He was The Angel at one college on Sunday and then turned himself into The Devil just in time for weekend debauchery at UMass. I actually brought the case files with me, so I'll turn 'em over to you to make further comparisons between the killings. If this is the same guy, and the pattern holds, we've only got a day or two before he puts on his devil horns again and sends another innocent victim to Hell."

"Yep, we don't want anybody feelin' the burn this weekend."

I gave him a _look_ and he returned it with a small side smirk. Driving on, we made it to Flack's apartment at 4 o'clock on the nose. I pulled the Heaven & Hell murder files from my briefcase and, after giving Sheldon a hug, got out and placed the folders on the passenger seat. "Hang in there, man," I said. "Lemme know if you need anything. Hey, I know tomorrow's Saturday, but would you be down for meeting up at the lab and going over what you and Danny find out?"

"Sure thing, sister."

Thanking Hawkes for the ride, I wheeled my suitcase into Flack's building and made my way to the elevator. Inhaling and then exhaling deeply, I prepared myself for the first sight of Flack's face. Although I deal with grief and depression all day at work, nothing cuts me more deeply than seeing a friend in pain. As the elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the doors opened, I could almost sense the dried tears embedded in the dark carpet--the silent sobs hanging in the air. Trying to keep my steps light as I walked down the hallway, I stopped at Apartment 502 and knocked on the door. I heard the peephole slide open and then close again, immediately followed by a burst of light as the door opened.

Lindsay Monroe stood in the doorway before me, her face miraculously warm and open in the midst of exhaustion. She had a napping Lucy on her right hip, gently bouncing the baby up and down to ensure that she remained asleep. I gave her as much of a hug as I could and whispered, "Thanks for waiting, chica. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm hanging in there. I guess I haven't been able to fully process my grief due to this little monkey--and then of course the drive-by last night." She shuddered, glancing at two deep cuts on the back of her left hand. "But in a way that's a good thing, you know? Danny and I felt blessed enough to have Lucy come out okay, but now we're even more grateful just to have each other. I just feel so bad for Flack. . . ." She broke off and teared up, wiping her eyes.

I gave her shoulder a squeeze. "You have a beautiful family, Linds. Even though the circumstances are horrible, there's nothing wrong with gaining a deeper appreciation for what you have. I'm sure Jess would've wanted it that way. Why don't you head on home and I'll take it from here?"

She exhaled audibly, nodding. "Okay. Time for this little one to eat anyway. Always hungry, just like her daddy. . .pretty soon she'll be asking where she can get a slice. Thanks, Liz. We're all really glad you're here. Oh, and Flack's in his room--he said he wanted to lie down for a while." We embraced again, and as I pulled back I gave Lucy's yellow onesie a small pat. After crossing the room to put Lucy in her car seat carrier and to pick up the blue Adidas diaper bag (Danny had refused to carry anything else), Lindsay gave me a wave and headed into the hallway. As I closed the door behind her, I marveled at her strength. What an incredible woman--she'd given birth just two weeks ago and not only was she already back at work, but was leading her family and friends through this difficult time with grace. I just hoped she would ask for help if she needed it.

Turning around to face the empty living room, I kicked my shoes off and threw my stuff in a heap at the end of the couch. I walked over to Flack's bedroom, and lightly tapping the closed door with my knuckles, listened for a response. I was just about to head back towards the sofa when I heard a hoarse "Yeah?" come from the room within. "Don, it's Liz," I said, wincing as I remembered that Jess was one of the only people who'd regularly called him by his first name. "Can I come in, or should I leave you alone?"

"You can come in." His voice was flat and strained--not at all like the lively, laughing speech I was so used to hearing from his mouth.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. What I saw was utter chaos. Flack's from the school of 'take care of what you have' and thus he usually lives amidst tidiness and organization. So the clothes and dishes on the floor made me think that this was where he must've turned his enraged sorrow loose the night before. I noted a broken wine bottle scattered over a bloody shirt and tie before turning my full gaze to my friend. The man himself was sitting on the edge of his bed, turning a basketball over and over again in his hands. Clad in black warm-ups and a sleeveless grey Yankees t-shirt, his hands shook ever so slightly as he continued to palm the Spalding. Finally, he looked up from the ball and said, softly, "Hey, Doc."

To look into his ice-blue eyes was to dive into an ocean of anguish. Mixed together in those two irises was all of the shock, confusion, fury, grief, fear and emptiness Flack had been feeling for the last day and a half. I almost gasped aloud at the sheer pain I could feel emanating from his poor torn heart. He had a deep, fresh crease in the skin on each side of his mouth from trying not to cry--and a whole host of burst scarlet blood vessels in his eyes that gave away his failure to do so.

I stepped over part of the mess and sat next to him on the bed. "Hey, Detective," I said, with a sad smile. "Wanna shoot around a little?" I nodded towards the basketball.

"Nah," he replied. "S' no good. We used to play HORSE sometimes on Saturday mornings, after coffee and breakfast. She'd, um, always tease me about not bein' able to make hook shots--said my long arms were useless. . .you know those damned softball players, they're always keepin' score no matter what. . . ." His jaw started working like crazy as he tried to keep the tears from coming, but eventually a few found their way to the smooth leather of the ball in his lap. I put my arm around his broad shoulders and we sat in silence for a long time, both feeling the gaping Jess-sized hole in Flack's heart.

I spoke first, as gently as I could. "Have you slept?"

He shook his head, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I tried. But yesterday--it's like a strobe light in my head. One minute we're on the phone makin' plans for last night, and the next I got my hand shoved into her stomach to stop the bleeding. I'm tryin' to talk to her in the back seat, keep her awake--but the light's goin' out of her eyes. And then suddenly we're at the hospital. The ER staff takes her away and I gotta stop at those swingin' double doors. . .and the next time I see her perfect face she's on that cold steel slab, gone."

Flack stopped for a second, catching a sob that threatened to rob him of his voice.

"Most of yesterday's even blurrier, like I was a robot or somethin'. Talkin' to Sid about the autopsy. Giving Jess' badge back to her ol' man. Me and Messer and Mac trackin' down this tricked-out Hummer the perps used to escape. Goin' to the warehouse where they were holding Dunbrook Junior--firing at some ex-military sharpshooter on the roof and not even caring if I got hit. Later, bustin' into an abandoned building and goin' after the guys that pulled off the kidnapping. And then suddenly it gets real clear."

There was a strong edge in his voice now, the anger rising quickly like a barometer filled with boiling-hot blood. I tried to contrast it with slow and calm words."What happened?"

"I catch up with this perp I already wounded. He's lyin' on his back and he clearly ain't goin' anywhere. But then I see the bloodstain on his left shoulder and the Desert Eagle .50 a few feet away from his hand. And I know it's the guy that murdered Jess. I can feel it. I feel his slug hittin' her in the gut. And I can't stop myself, Lizzie--I shoot the bastard right between the eyes."

I sat for a moment, digesting his words. The implications of what he was saying were severe. As police officers, it is our duty to haul even the worst scum to the hospital if they are incapacitated but alive. Flack had killed a man that might have lived--and yet who could blame him? Anybody coming face-to-face with the asshole that killed his girlfriend not eight hours earlier would have pulled that trigger. I know I would have.

"I haven't told anybody that last part," he said. "Not even Messer. And now I'm thinkin' it was a big mistake to off that son of a bitch."

"I don't plan on telling anybody any of this," I assured him. "What makes you say that it was a mistake?" _Aside from the obvious ethical issues_, I thought.

"I think," he sighed, "that my pluggin' that piece of shit is connected to last night's drive-by."

I looked at him quizzically. "Go on."

"When the CSIs and I were taken back to the precinct after the shooting last night, I got to thinkin' about the takedown earlier in the day. We only shot or captured four guys, Liz--but there were actually five suspects. I dunno if we were all just too emotional over Jess or what, but I think that last POS got away, rounded up some other disgraced military losers and blasted the hell out of that bar."

"That may be true, but you're not responsible for--"

"But Stella's shoulder--"

"Let me finish," I said, slowly. "You are not responsible for any of the horrible things that happened yesterday. Jess' death is not your fault. You got to that cafe as soon as you could and you did everything in your power to save her. The bar shooting? Also not your fault. You might be feeling guilty about what you did, but unless that fifth moron was hiding behind a corner watching you fire your gun, there is no direct connection between you and that drive-by. Every perp involved in both shootings made a choice when he got out of bed yesterday, Flack--he chose the path of violence and fear. You can't blame yourself for their decisions."

He took in my words but didn't look convinced. Then his face switched to an expression of dejection, and as he looked at me he said, "I took that same path of violence yesterday, Liz. I didn't hafta shoot that murderer, but I couldn't hold back. . .I don't know if I can live with that, even if a thousand other people would've done the same thing. As a cop I'm supposed to do what's right, not what's easy."

"It's easier for me to say this than for you to do it," I began, "but I think we've just gotta take this one step at a time. Let's work on keeping your good memories of Jess alive and worry about IAB another day, okay?"

"Yeah, ok," he said, rubbing his eyes and thrusting a hand through his greying black hair. "I'll try."

I gestured to the corner of the room where the tangled mass of blood, green glass and fabric lay. "You wanna tell me about that?"

"I'll tell ya that that's the shirt and tie I was wearin' yesterday," he said. "The rest--well, some things should be left alone. I'm feelin' a little better now, though."

"Fair enough." I reminded myself to watch Flack's drinking over the next couple of days. He was, of course, a capable adult, but crushing grief and a family history of alcoholism make for a potent combination.

Flack slowly stood up from his bed and turned towards the door, but then stopped. A hint of his usual fiery self shone through his face as he asked, "So what're you doing here anyway, Ryder? You need an escape from your Sox's losing streak?"

"Nah, I just wanted to see for myself how much wind power is generated when Teixeira strikes out," I retorted. "Word is Obama's thinking of asking him to serve as an alternative energy source."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, just like old times. "All right, well, since you're here to help me through my grief you gotta suffer too--through tonight's game. See if my Yanks can hold off the M & M boys in Jess' honor."

"The things I do for friends," I said, with feigned exasperation. "What do you want for dinner?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but remembered who he was talking to and gave in. "Steak," he said, definitively. "I haven't eaten anything all day."

I set about slapping together a makeshift steak stir-fry with a few slightly withered vegetables from the fridge. _Tsk--those New Yorkers_, I thought to myself. _They get so spoiled with all of this great international food lining every block_. Flack flipped on the TV and we settled in to watch the game while we ate.

In addition to all the other indicators of Flack's grief, his demeanor during the following nine innings was a big giveaway as to his emotional state. Normally, watching Don take in a Yankees game is more entertaining than the game itself: lots of clapping, whooping, sitting on the edge of the couch and jumping up for home runs. It's almost as exciting as watching hockey with the guy. So the still air surrounding the quiet man sitting next to me with a glazed look on his face felt more than strange.

It proved to be a crazy game. Despite Justin Morneau's two home runs, the Yanks pulled an inside-the-park home run and an explosive showing by A-Fraud (excuse me, A-Rod) out of their expensive bag of tricks. By the time Melky Cabrera banged a walkoff single in the bottom of the ninth to seal the win at 5-4, Flack had perked up enough to smile as he said, softly, almost to himself, "That one was for you, babe."

After taking care of the dishes, I walked to the hall closet and pulled a blanket off of the top shelf. Tossing it on the couch, I looked at Flack and said, "I think it's time to say 'fuck off' to today, don't you?"

He stood and crossed his arms, looking defiant. "Liz, you don't have to stay. I'll be fine."

"Look, I know you can take care of yourself. I'm not trying to baby you. Just think of it as a repayment of the debt I racked up when you came to take care of me and Casey after Mom died. That was a lot of nasty-ass Kleenex you had to throw away, remember? Besides, I got here so fast I didn't have time to book a hotel, so you're stuck with me for tonight."

"You're a piece of work, Ryder," he said, rubbing his neck and sighing. "You know where everything is if you need somethin', right?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"All right. I'm gonna try and get some sleep. Thanks for bein' here, Liz." He walked over to me and as we embraced, the full weight of his six-foot-two downtrodden frame sunk down onto my shoulders. I almost staggered under the heaviness of his all-consuming sorrow, but recovered long enough to bear it, even if only for a few seconds. His chest heaved once and then he pulled back, sniffing and wiping his eyes. "Night."

"Night, Don."

After he'd closed his door behind him, I walked around the apartment, cleaning up what I could. As I went I thought about Flack's last 36 hours. It always amazes me how many things can change in a person's life in such a short period of time. Although he was in better shape than some I'd seen in my career, I wasn't sure if he'd ever completely recover from this. I knew he was a strong man--you don't use an Irish temper to make it through the Police Academy if you aren't--but everybody has a breaking point.

Satisfied with the results of my little tidying-up tour, I changed into my makeshift pajamas of a tank top and underwear and, pulling out the book I'd brought with me, sat on the couch and began to read. I'd been engrossed in _Frankenstein _for about an hour when the bedroom door opened again. Flack stood before me in nothing but his boxers, their light blue fabric contrasting with his tan skin. Under any other circumstances, I would've made a crack about that carpet of chest hair, but all I had to do was look north of Don's scarred torso to see the suffering in his face. The bags that had been present under his eyes earlier in the day were now deep craters of purple and blue. His hair stuck up in every direction, indicating an hour of nothing but tossing and turning.

"You okay?"

He shook his head slowly and looked at the floor. "Lizzie, I have a favor to ask," he said, almost whispering. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to though."

"Name it."

"I can't sleep without knowing that she's next to me. I was always an insomniac before I met her, remember? And now that she's gone, now that I'll never feel her on my other side again--it's like someone ripped the hope of rest right outta my bed."

"You need me to sleep next to you tonight?"

He nodded, almost in tears. "Just until I fall asleep. I gotta get some rest, Liz. I can't keep goin' after the bad guys for her if I'm a zombie."

"No problem."

He turned around and walked back into his room, rubbing his arms to fight off the slight breeze that had snuck into the apartment. Lifting the crisp white sheets on the right side of the bed, he motioned for me to get in. I did so, lying back on Jess' pillow. Stumbling around to the other half, he climbed in and turned on his right side. The last thing he said to me was in a voice of utter exhaustion: "Thank you." He let out a huge sigh and settled into the folds of his pillow.

"Sleep well, Don." Lightly patting his shoulder, I turned off the bedside lamp and reclined once more. Folding my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling for a while, sending fragments of cases and patient needs whizzing around my brain while my eyes took in the shifting bluish shadows above. About ten minutes later, I leaned slightly towards Flack, and when I was satisfied that all one hundred and ninety pounds of him were asleep, I slipped quietly out of bed and began padding across the floor. No need for him to wake up tomorrow morning and mistake me for Jess. Too damaging psychologically.

As I reached the door, I turned around one last time to check on Flack. Breathing deeply, the man finally looked at peace. The demons of loss and emptiness would have to wait a few more hours until they could wreak their havoc once more. Walking back out into the main room, I closed the door behind me--leaving my friend enveloped in the safety of the night's arms.


	2. Saturday

**Saturday**

Morning came to New York City again, and sent sunlight shining through the windows of Flack's apartment onto my face. I let out a bit of a groan, stretched and sat up on the couch. Comfortable as it was, it was no substitute for my Tempur-Pedic back at home. The problem with being a psychiatrist & psychotherapist is that you carry a lot of other people's problems around with you, and thus having a place to let it all slip away at the end of the day is crucial to maintaining any semblance of sanity.

My mind had just begun to wander into the realm of breakfast possibilities when I heard a shout from Flack's room. "Where's the ambulance?!" he yelled. And then again: "Drive! Drive!"

_Oh God--he's re-living Thursday_, I thought. I shot off the couch like Jacoby running down a ball to deep left center and burst into the bedroom. I got to Flack's side just as he pleaded, "Hey Jess, hey babe, it's all right--stay with me, okay?" I knew if I jarred him too quickly out of his nightmare he'd experience even more trauma from the confusion, so I placed one hand on his right shoulder and the other on his chest. "Don," I said, quietly at first, shaking him very gently. "Don, wake up."

His eyes flew open just as he screamed, "Jess, don't go! I love you!" He sat bolt upright and looked at me, breathing heavily. His brow was dripping with sweat and there was pure panic in those twin pools of pale blue. Returning his gaze, I inhaled and exhaled deeply, indicating that he should do the same. "Just breathe, Flack. It's okay. You're safe now that you're awake. Just breathe."

He obliged, and slowly the color came back into his face. Leaning over and picking up a dirty shirt from the floor, I handed it to him so he could wipe off his forehead. "Was it just like Thursday?"

Nodding, Flack dropped his head into his hands. "All except one thing," he said, in a voice that can only be described as haunted.

"What's that?"

"I. . . ." He stopped, bringing a fist to his mouth to keep the corners of his lips from dissolving into sobs.

"It's okay," I said. "You don't have to tell me if you can't or don't want to."

"No," he said, his voice still flat but stronger now. "It needs to be said." He looked at me again, and said, "I never told Jess that I loved her."

I'm not at a loss for words very often, but the defeat splayed out on Flack's face as he delivered that intimate and core-shaking statement was enough to strip me of my ability to speak. Everything I could have possibly said in the wake of that sentence would have been trite at best--and inane at worst. Instead, I reached for him and pulled his slumped body into my arms. He rested his head on my shoulder, and although I heard no gasps for air I soon felt the presence of tears on my skin. "I'm sorry, Flack," I finally whispered. "I'm so sorry."

We stayed like that for a while, and when he was ready he sniffed loudly, sat back and cleared his throat. "Give me a minute, Lizzie, huh?"

"Sure." I got up from the bed and walked out into the main room, quietly closing the door. I just stood there next to the couch for a minute, letting the enormity of the moment wash over me. _**I never told Jess that I loved her**__._ Shit. _A man's heart can only take so much before it bursts_, I thought. About twenty minutes later, Flack emerged from his room wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His eyes were still rimmed with redness, but his entire face from hairline to jaw was the very picture of determination. The tears, I knew, were to be left in that room along with his love's blood.

"Want somethin' to eat?"

"Yeah," I said, respecting his newfound control over the apartment. "I could use a big ol' Danish or a cinnamon roll."

"Nice. That's what I was thinkin' too." He gestured to my tank top and boy shorts. "You gonna make me walk around with you dressed like that?"

"The privilege would be all yours and you know it," I joked. "But hey, before I do get dressed, I talked to Mac last night after you fell asleep. He was wondering if we could join the CSI team over at the lab for a meeting around noon."

"For what?"

"Two things. First, he wants to talk about Thursday night. Wants to make sure everybody's okay. He also wants all of us to work together on this case I brought down from Boston." He looked at me funny, so I waved my hand and said, "I'll explain later. For now, though, whaddya think?"

He chewed at his bottom lip a little bit, thinking. The lines on his face twisted into a frown, and I thought he was about to say no when suddenly he nodded and said, "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Work's probably best right now anyway. It's what she woulda done."

I smiled. "Sweet. I'll go get decent."

"Fat chance of that ever happening, Doc," he quipped as I headed for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, Flack and I emerged from the subway station closest to the lab. Filled with the sugary goodness of our streetside breakfasts, our long legs moved at a comfortable pace amidst the weekend foot traffic. I was giving Flack the rundown on the Heaven & Hell murders, musing aloud about what kind of pathological profile the killer might have. "I'm thinking something involving whacked-out brain chemistry," I was saying. "This nut clearly thinks he's on some kind of mission from God."

"Whacked-out brain chemistry and nut, huh, Ryder? Those shrink technical terms?"

"Hey, I can't always use multi-syllabic medical terminology."

"Wuss." He ducked out of the way of my playful punch before continuing. "Yeah, this guy's clearly got somethin' to prove. Girls with feathers in their throats and frat boys covered in their own blood--that ain't no normal Sunday in church."

We drifted into sports smack talk for the rest of the sunshine-filled walk. Entering the lab's building, we stepped into the elevator. Flack pushed the correct button (he'd challenged me to do it, but I couldn't remember since it had been so long) and we zoomed up to the 35th floor. The elevator doors opened into eerie quiet. A few technicians sat pecking away at computer terminals, but mostly the lab was a shell of its usual self. Walking down the hall, Flack and I were met by the former Marine himself, Mac Taylor. Although dressed in jeans, he still sported his navy blue blazer with that favorite pin on the left lapel. His face looked gaunt, and I could tell he'd had to call upon old military skill sets to lead his team through this time of need. But he appeared to have done so successfully, as his chin was held high.

"Hi, Don," he began, putting a hand on Flack's shoulder. "How're you holding up?" "All right," Flack said, jerking a thumb in my direction. "I got the Queen of the Boston Police Department kickin' my butt off the couch and out the door." Mac's gaze turned and he gave me a one-sided smile. "Elizabeth," he said, stepping towards me and into a short hug. "It's nice to see you."

Mac is the only person in the world I allow to call me by my full first name. It's formal, yet there's something so paternal in the way he says it--you know that he commands respect but that he'll protect you at the same time. It never fails to elicit a little bit of a grin from me, and as I pulled back from his embrace I said, "Hi, Mac. How's Stella?" I knew the well-being of his longtime partner would be at the forefront of his mind. "She's fine," he said, with a look of concern that quickly faded to amusement. "They tried to keep her at the hospital for more recovery time, but she wouldn't have any of it. She's in the conference room with everyone else." He began walking in the direction of said meeting place and motioned for us to follow.

Detective Taylor led us into a partially darkened room, where a few computers and a large projection screen dominated the surroundings. Flack brushed past me and stepped over to where the Messer & Monroe family had congregated. Before I followed suit, though, I stopped and smiled at the person sitting closest to the door: Stella Bonasera. Perched on a desk with her heeled feet propped up on a stationary chair, the curly-haired Greek goddess of the CSI Team projected her usual aura of forcefulness--the only crack in its facade being the sling that adorned her right arm. "Hey, Liz," she said, in a voice both strong yet weary at the same time. "Good to have you here." I gave her a quick kiss on the left cheek and folded my arms, suddenly playing the interrogator. "Hey lady. How's the shoulder? Are you taking good care of it? Giving yourself enough rest?"

She smirked and pretended to be annoyed. "Why does everybody think I need to be reminded to take care of myself?" I gave her a stern look, and I heard Mac stifle a laugh behind me. "Okay, okay, stupid question," she admitted. "I'm fine, really. And besides, I've got the Good Doctor over there bothering me--he inspects the dressing every half an hour." She nodded in Sheldon's direction, who stopped talking to Adam just long enough to wave and flash us a huge grin. "Just doing my job, Stell," he said. Stella shook her head and smiled. "Yeah, well, if it gets infected from too much attention, I'm blaming you."

Our eyes met again, and I snatched the moment for a serious question. "And how are you emotionally?" I queried, in a lower voice. She sucked some air in through her nose, appearing to fill her chest with courage. Finally she nodded, just once. "Okay. I'm just trying to keep going like everybody else. I still can't believe that Thursday actually happened." Rubbing her left palm on her jeans, she nodded in Mac's direction. "But we're all in good hands. Mac's a great leader and a real friend, Liz. He was right there with me at the hospital until they kicked him out Friday morning." "No surprise there," I said. "Glad you're all right. Lemme know if you need anything." She set her jaw and nodded her assent, following it up with a sincere "Thank you." As I moved away from Stella, Mac slid in to take my place. He pulled out a file and the two of them bent their heads over the contents, deep in animated discussion.

Meanwhile, I made my way to the back of the room, where Danny and Lindsay were standing with Flack. As I walked up to the group, Flack turned so that his back was no longer to me--and in his arms was little Lucy Messer, clad in a light purple onesie and matching pants. Although the hint of a smile graced Don's lips, his eyes were filled with heartbreak as he gently lifted the very alert baby into the air, bringing her back towards his body for a kiss on the forehead. I wondered if he had thought about being a father--and more specifically, the father of Jess' children. His knotted forehead seemed to betray as much. Flack waved Lucy's tiny right arm at me, and my face erupted into a huge smile as I waved back. "Hi little one," I said. "Hi Lucy. How are you? Are you ready to see the Sox kick some Yankee butt next month? Are you?"

"Hey, hey, hey now!" Danny Messer stepped towards me, his arms spread wide and his face barely maintaining a serious expression. "Whaddya think you're doin' there, Fenway, comin' into MY lab and corrupting MY daughter with your Red Sox Nation talk? Get outta here!"

"Just tryin' to give her a chance to root for a real team," I said. "But hey, if you don't want what's best for your kid. . . ." I trailed off, grinning.

"Good to see you, Liz," Danny said, wrapping his arms around me for a big hug. "Even if I think you need some of your own shrink help when it comes to sports." Despite their surrounding dark circles (a combination of the new baby and the last couple of days, I was guessing), his eyes still sparkled with the intensity of a true baseball fan. "I mean, did you see what A-Rod did to Mauer & Morneau last night?!"

"Yeah, Flack and I watched the game," I replied, yawning in an exaggerated fashion and giving him my best bored look. "You seen one druggie, you seen 'em all."

Flack gave a low whistle and shook his head, saying, "Ooh, Mess, she went there. . . ." Before Danny could bite my head off for the steroids comment, though, Lindsay stepped between us, the ambassador separating two cities. "All right, you guys, that's enough. The Yanks and the Sox will still be there after we crack this case. Plus, my Giants are gonna eat whichever one of you wins the East for lunch in the playoffs." She put her lithe left hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, smiling as she turned back towards her husband. "Danny, I think Mac's going to start the meeting soon. Would you take Lucy down to daycare, please?"

"Whatever you say, mama," Danny replied. Pointing at me, he looked down his nose and through those very stylish glasses, warning, "I'll deal with you later, ya Red Menace." So saying, he carefully collected his daughter from Flack (who seemed very reluctant to give Lucy up) and as he left the room we all heard him altering an age-old song to quiet her fussing: "Hush little bambina, don't say a word. . .Papa's gonna buy you a Jeter shirt."

Everybody laughed, and the moment served as a good transition into business. Every team member but Mac took a seat at the room's central table, some of us fiddling with papers while others sat deep in thought. Out of protective instinct, I'd parked myself next to Flack, and when no one was looking I quickly reached over and squeezed his hand. He gripped it tightly for a moment and then let go, retreating into his mind. Danny came jogging back down the hall and took his place next to Lindsay, the two exchanging that look that first-time parents get--the one filled with awe at the beauty of new life. Whatever the strength of the shock waves generated by Thursday's violence, I knew that Lucy's newborn days would shine brightly enough to block out the pain. Mac stepped to the head of the table and began to speak.

"Okay, everybody," he began, in that slow voice of rationality and calm. "Thanks for coming in today. I know I told you all to take the weekend off, but I've changed my mind. Instead, I think it's best that we join as a team and use each others' strength to get through this." Every head around the table nodded, including my own. He continued, a bit more forcefully now. "Today is Armed Forces Day, and I think it serves as a good reminder for us to band together. In the Marines, when somebody attacks one of us, they attack all of us, and this team is no different. We will respond to this attack by helping each other--the way Jess would have done if any of us had been the one cut down."

He paused, and I snuck a look at Flack. Don still had his eyes fixed on Mac, but the mention of Jess' name had caused him to flinch slightly. Under the table I could see him clench the arm of his chair until the big veins on the back of his left hand stuck out like swollen slipstreams. But he did not crack.

"With that in mind," Mac said, "I want you all to listen carefully and understand the motivation behind what I'm about to tell you. Believe me, I wanna know who's behind the drive-by as much as you do. But this time I want us to back off and let the police handle the bulk of the investigation."

Gasps and indignant snorts flew up from around the table. "What?!" "But Mac--" "You kiddin'me?" That last one came from Danny, his stubble-rife face covered in confusion. Flack, I noted, was quiet.

"Hey! I told you all to listen," Mac said, sternly. "I didn't say we'd be abandoning the case altogether, just letting other detectives take the first steps. We've got lots of different layers in play here: the former military personnel from the kidnapping, the two Dunbrooks--not to mention the fact that one of us was specifically targeted by the shooter. With that level of personal involvement, there is no way that all of us can remain appropriately detached. I don't want this son of a bitch to get away because we're blinded by grief and anger. The scant evidence we have so far is saying that the bar shooting is connected to Jess' murder, and if we want all of the killers involved to be brought to justice then we will do our best to secure impartiality."

Mac shifted slightly and looked at Flack. "Don, this doesn't apply to you," he said, softening his expression a little bit. "You're obviously free to do what you wish." Flack nodded, but still remained steeped in silence. "Does everybody copy that? We are the witnesses and the victims in this case, not the investigators."

The room fell silent for a few moments. Finally, Stella's voice pierced the stillness. "Well, Mac, you know it isn't easy for me to keep my emotions--or, right now, my pissed-off shoulder--out of any situation, but if you believe that this is what's best for the team, then I'm with you." She sat back in her chair and set her jaw--thinking, no doubt, about how good it would feel to bust the guy that had plugged her arm.

"Okay," Mac said. "And the rest of you? You on board?"

Slowly everyone either nodded or verbalized their acceptance of the situation. "Promise me one thing, though, Mac," Danny urged.

"What's that?"

"Make sure we have somebody updatin' us every chance they get. Just 'cause we're tyin' our hands behind our backs don't mean we gotta be blind & deaf too, right?"

"All right, it's done. Now, what I want us to work on in the meantime is a case I gave to Danny & Hawkes--the murder of a college student. When Doctor Ryder came down from Boston yesterday, she and Hawkes discovered that Boston PD has been investigating two murders that appear to have been committed by the same person from our own case. Elizabeth, would you give us the background on your two killings?"

"Sure." I rose from my seat and walked to where Mac was standing. I took a moment to collect my thoughts and said: "Thanks for welcoming me into your circle again, guys. It's been too long since I've seen some of you. I wish the circumstances were different, but I'm glad to be here. I think you're all being very brave in the face of such a painful thing, and I'm impressed by your strength. I know that you have each other, and that there are lots of qualified professionals down here to help if you need them. But I also want to make myself available to you. I'll be here until tomorrow evening, and Flack has my number if you need somebody to talk to anytime after that. I'm always here if you need me."

I paused, hoping my words had penetrated the seven different defense mechanisms triggered on Thursday. Clearing my throat and shifting to a more formal tone, I pulled a series of photos out of my Heaven & Hell files. "Last Monday morning," I began, putting the first grisly picture on the projection screen, "my Boston boys were called to the rooftop of the Old South Church in Copley Square. There they found three young women nailed to crosses, naked except for torn white sheets around their waists." "Upon further examination of the bodies," I continued, putting up another photo, "the blues discovered that each woman had feathers glued to her back--in the shape of wings."

Lindsay's eyes widened. "Sarah, our ME," I went on, "found the exact same type of feathers in each girl's throat. She determined that COD for each of the vics was asphyxiation--all three were suffocated with a feather pillow later discovered at the primary crime scene."

Flack spoke up, startling me and everyone else at the table. "How'd the girls know each other?"

"They were all students at Bay State College," I replied. "Two of 'em roomed together and all three attended a regular campus Christian group. In fact, we think that's where the killer found his prey. He left behind a calling card, too--take a look." The Angel's painted white signature was splashed across the room, and everyone drew in a bit of a breath. The contrast between the perfectly lettered cursive on three tanned stomachs and the nails through six bloody wrists was more than unsettling.

"So PD figured it was an isolated case and set about looking through the prior religious nut file for clues. Then, in the early hours of Saturday morning, three UMass kids were found murdered. They'd been killed on campus and then moved to the Common."

"Where?" Lindsay looked confused.

"Oh, sorry, babe. Boston Common--it's a big green space right in the middle of the city. Lotsa musicians, protests, Shakespeare in the Park--that kind of stuff. I got my favorite Yankees Suck t-shirt there."

While Hawkes laughed, Danny and Flack rolled their eyes at the exact same time. "Keep it movin', _Fenway_," the new father said.

"Whatevah," I said, in my best over-the-top accent. I slid another photo onto the screen. "Anyway, these vics were male--and freshmen at that. Apparently they were all pledging the same frat. Killer drowned the three of them in tubs of alcohol--one wine, one beer and one vodka. And he left behind another alias."

This picture was the one of the boys' backs, each body bearing "The Devil" in sloppy capital letters.

"Is that written in. . .?" Stella asked, wrinkling her nose.

" 'Fraid so," I confirmed. "Killer slit the boys' wrists and then used the blood for his little fingerpainting session."

"But. . .so. . .how. . . ."

"Spit it out, Adam," I said, teasing my favorite socially awkward lab tech.

"I'm just wondering how the killer overpowered three people at once in both situations. Especially long enough to carry out complicated deaths like smothering and drowning."

I nodded, acknowledging the insightful nature of the question. "Good catch. Tox reports showed the same type of powerful sedative present in all six victims," I replied. "That and a handwriting analysis confirmed that The Angel and The Devil are one and the same. The boys all had coke in their systems too, so we're thinking that's the method of delivery there. The girls ingested it with food."

It was quiet for a moment while everyone took in the complexities of the case. Finally Mac moved us forward. "Thank you, Elizabeth," he said. "I'm glad you had this information with you. Danny, Hawkes--what can you tell us about our own 'Angel' victim?"

Danny jumped up from his spot at Lindsay's side. "I got it, Doc--oh, excuse me, _Docs_," he said, throwing a teasing look in my direction. Opening his own manila folder, Messer placed a photo of another half-naked young woman nailed to a cross up on the projection screen. The team and I turned our heads to the side, reading the familiar painted white letters stretching across the woman's abdomen.

"Our vic was a senior at Fordham University," Danny began. "Turns out she was killed on Wednesday, but Hawkes and I didn't get the call until Thursday after the bar shooting. Guess the parishioners at the North Bronx Mennonite Church don't do enough rooftop evangelizin'. Anyway, check out what we found when we took her off the cross." Danny removed the photo and replaced it with another. Instead of the apex of the church, though, the dull steel tables from Sid's sterile domain served as the picture's background. Before us was the bare skin of a woman's back, and it bore a chilling sight. Branded below the poor girl's shoulder blades were each of the Ten Commandments, one per line: _Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. _And so on. Although I'd known the victim's fate in advance, the visual was no less disturbing. We all gave a collective shake of the head and Danny continued.

"Sid's determined that COD came from the branding," he said, moving his hands as he spoke. "Not the nails?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice. "In my limited experience, crucifixion generally gets the job done." He nodded vigorously but quickly set me straight. "Hawkes and I thought the same thing. But the amount and thickness of the blood on that cross indicate that she was dead when the killer drove the nails through. Although our vic was only 22, the shock of bein' burned with The Good Word was too much for her. She had a panic-induced heart attack and boom, gone."

"Sheldon," said Mac, shifting focus, "are our killer and Elizabeth's one and the same?" The million-dollar question of the day.

"We've sent photos of the white paint over to the handwriting analysis department. They'll be compared with the Boston crime scene photos. Additionally, we're waiting for tox results to come back on our girl. If Danny and I are correct in our thinking, the blood panel will yield the same type of sedative present in the systems of the Boston victims—and we'll be one step closer to proving that Liz's Angel flew south for the week."

"Okay. Good work, everybody. Now that we're all up to speed, let's catch this guy. Elizabeth, Hawkes—I want the two of you to work on the killer's pathology. Establish a timeline and see if you can find any clues as to who his next victim will be. Stella and I will map out the crime scenes to try and predict the location of the next murder. Lindsay, I want you on the evidence collected from the Mennonite Church. Call up to Boston if you need more information on the items they bagged up there. Danny, Adam—I need you two back at the crime scene. Look for anything that indicates what we now know: that this killer's path of destruction started somewhere other than New York City." Mac delivered his assignments with the usual impressive efficiency, receiving enthusiastic nods as each task was allocated.

"Hey, Mac, lemme go with Adam to the scene," Flack said, a touch of eagerness in his voice. "That way Messer and Monroe can have a nice, romantic afternoon over bloody nails and deadly feathers."

If Mac was surprised at Flack's offer, he didn't show it. "Sure, Don. Glad to have you on the case. And I'm sure Lucy will appreciate having both of her busy parents in the same building." He smiled, then signaled the meeting's end. "We'll meet back here in an hour for an update. Flack, why don't you grab your radio just in case we get a lead on a location?"

"I'm on it," said Flack. His positive energy surged through the room, and I think we all felt our hearts lift a bit at this glimpse of our Detective back in action.

As everyone began moving in separate directions, Hawkes and I locked eyes. He gestured to a room directly adjacent to the one we were currently in, and upon walking into the new space immediately began attacking a white board with a dry erase pen. He scribbled silently for a few minutes, then stepped back to show me the results. What he'd drawn was the following:

**Day: ** Sunday * Saturday * Wednesday

**Date: **5/3 * 5/9 * 5/13

**#/Sex: **3/ Female * 3/Male * 1/Female

**Bodies Found: **Old South Church * Boston Common * North Bronx Mennonite Church

** Method: **Smothered * Drowned * Branded

"Ok, Liz, here's everything we need to crack this guy. What do you see?"

"Well," I said slowly, "from the time Chief Fitz put this file on my desk to Danny's presentation just now, I've been consistently steered towards the same conclusion with regard to the killer's psychological state. Can you guess what I'm thinkin'?"

"Let's see," Hawkes mused, putting his medical mind to work. "Our murderer has a fixation on duality—Heaven and Hell, men and women—that involves the assuming of two separate identities. The energy required to commit these complicated killings indicates an elevated neurological state. Could be borderline personality disorder, but the religious element is just too strong too ignore. You thinking untreated bipolar disorder?"

"Exactly. You'd make a good shrink, Doc. Anyway, I'm definitely thinking bipolar—someone on a mission from God in a manic phase burning brighter than I've ever seen. If we assume that the killer's high began a couple of days before he whacked his first victims, that means his little trip among the stars has lasted for more than two weeks. Like you said, nailing women to crosses and drowning frat boys takes a lot of energy, so he's gonna burn out real soon. When he does, we're screwed, because once he realizes what he's done, the depression he'll enter will be so deep and crushing that he may kill himself. And you know what that means."

"No justice for the families." Hawkes' strong jaw was moved to clench at the thought. I took the pen from him and wrote 'Bipolar—Type 1?' up on the board.

"Right. Now, looking at the time elapsed between the murders, we can see that they're getting closer together. This is also an indication of a crash on the horizon: as a person nears the end of a manic period, he or she moves at a dizzying pace. They become increasingly irritated, talk too fast, show enhanced intensity in their delusions and don't sleep at all. I'm guessing the next killing won't be as well-planned as the others as a result. I think the one pattern that will hold is that the next vics will be male, but that's it."

Sheldon looked at his watch. "Today's the 16th. Three days since the last killing. Looks like we better find these last kids fast."

Just then, a cute lab tech walked in the room carrying a folder. She walked up to Hawkes, smiled, and said, "Here's the handwriting analysis report you wanted, Doctor Hawkes. Hot off the presses."

"Thank you, Jamie," he said, smiling. "We really appreciate it." He watched her blonde ponytail bounce away a little too long as she left, prompting me to coo, "So can we see the results, Doctor Hawkes? I'd really appreciate it." He gave me a half-hearted glare, then blushed a little and obliged by flipping open the folder. We nodded our heads simultaneously after interpreting the crux of the report: The Angels that had killed in Boston and New York were now confirmed to be the same person.

"Sweet," I said. "We've got the how, the why and most of the who--now we just need to know where."

"We've got some pieces of the puzzle that might help." Mac and Stella strode into the room, and the former Marine was about to walk to one of the computer terminals when he stopped and stared at the white board. "The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost," he said quietly, confusing the hell out of the rest of us. Hawkes voiced our befuddlement. "Come again, Mac?"

"It's the trinity. Our killer started with three victims in each of the two killings, representing The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost. He sent the three Bay State girls to Heaven for their demonstrated devotion to God and to Jesus, reflective of the New Testament. The symbolism then carried over into the murders of the UMass boys. Even though the Bible says Jesus died for all mankind's sins, the killer is still driven to remind us of the power of the Devil."

We kept listening, intrigued. Mac went on. "Now, though, the presence of just one victim at the Mennonite Church—and a branded one at that—means that he's reverting back to the Old Testament, where God was vengeful. The vic was a seminary student, yet was not spared the Almighty's anger. The condensing of the three back into the one."

"You sure about this, Mac?" Stella sounded wary. "That's a lot of leaps you're making."

"I know, Stella, but it makes sense. Especially looking at the Doctors' potential diagnosis. Our man's manic 'mission from God' is to warn humanity of the return of the Lord's wrath. This next solitary victim is going to be punished for what the killer deems to be a grave sin against the man upstairs. Besides, I know my threes, remember?"

Stella and Hawkes smiled, impressed by Mac's ability to make jokes about such a frightening experience from his past.

"Okay, let's recap," I said. "We know that our killer's next victim will likely be male, and only one male. This murder is gonna go down soon, today or tomorrow at the latest. What did you guys get on a potential location?"

Mac completed his originally intended path to the computer and pulled up a map of the six locations in play so far: the university crime scenes and the sites at which the victims' bodies were found.

"When Stella and I first examined the locations individually, nothing jumped out at us," he explained. "However, when we put them all up on the same map, a pattern emerged."

"The key is in the directions," Stella said. "We know our killer is into opposites and duality, so we decided to look at where the bodies ended up relative to where they started." She pointed with her good hand at Bay State, and as she traced the few short blocks to the Old South Church, Mac had the computer's mapping program highlight her finger's route.

"See?" Stella was getting excited. "The Old South Church is south of Bay State College. Moving on to the next murder, Boston Common is west of UMass. Our crime scene, the North Bronx Mennonite Church, is north of Fordham University. So that only leaves one direction left."

"East," Hawkes said. "But where?"

"You two and Danny already pointed out that the Heaven victims were taken to churches, and there's no reason to suspect that the killer will deviate from the precedent already set by the first Hell murder—even if he is close to cracking. That last body is going to end up in a park."

"Ok, Stell," I said, nodding. "But as you guys remind everybody all the time, New York City is filled with glorious parks. We need to figure out which school our cracked-out Angel of Death will be headed east from."

"We think we've at least got an area pinned down," Mac said. "Even the locations of the students' schools have symbolic significance. If you took a walk from Bay State College to UMass, you'd go almost due east, making a horizontal line. By contrast, the path from Fordham University to the last school site will make a vertical line—"

"—and the two should combine to create a cross!" exclaimed Stella, finishing Mac's sentence with her unbridled enthusiasm. He looked at her and grinned.

Hawkes was getting into it too. "So how many schools are there on the line running north and south through Fordham?"

"Eleven," Mac replied, displaying them up on the map."Unless Danny and Lindsay can give us something from the evidence collected at the scene, we're gonna have to sort through eleven schools to see which one's harboring our guy's sinner."

Just then, Messer and Lindsay walked into the room. Danny had a red folder in his hands and he handed it to Mac, shaking his head.

"Not guy, Mac," he corrected. "_Girl_."

Four jaws had to be scooped off the floor at this stunning revelation. "Our killer is a woman?" Mac voiced everyone's surprise.

"Well, Mac, if ya think about it, you don't need a lotta brute strength to kill somebody once they've got massive amounts of sedatives in their system." He placed the folder in Mac's hands and gestured to it. "Tox results from our vic came back to the same drug that was runnin' through the veins of the Boston kids."

Mac was still shaking his head. "All right, then. Definitely wasn't expecting that one."

"Yep, and we wouldn't have known if not for my brilliant wife here." Danny put his arm around Lindsay's shoulders and beamed. "Tell 'em about the hairs, babe."

"Well, I went back and examined some of the physical evidence collected from the primary crime scene of the Fordham murder, which was the vic's dorm room. Specifically, a hair belonging to our victim. Turns out the hair was really two hairs wrapped around each other, and one did belong to our vic, but although the other was very similar to the first it did, in fact, have a separate DNA profile. Also, the ends of both hairs indicate that they were ripped out, pointing to a struggle. So Danny ran it through CODIS and--"

"You got something?" Stella was again unable to contain herself.

"--we got something," Lindsay finished. "Eve Black. Busted two months ago right here in Manhattan for creating a public disturbance. Seems she got in one too many people's faces screaming about the end of the world and was taken in on assault charges--but the uniforms thought she was just another crazy, you know?" She shrugged, and we all indicated our sympathy for the officers. In a city of 8 million people, it's difficult to go a full day without at least one nut telling you you're going to hell.

Hawkes' eyes met my own, and he nodded at me. "That timeline fits with our thoughts as to the killer's psychological state," I explained, drawing Lindsay and Danny's attention to the white board. "Sounds like she was on the end of another manic period when she got booked, spent six weeks in a depressive period, and now she's flyin' high again. Only this time people are dying."

"So that brings us back to the where," Mac said. He pointed to the map again. "We've got eleven schools along this line that Eve could use as a hunting ground for her next victim. Did you two find anything else that might help narrow things down?"

"Well, see what ya think of this," Danny said. "I started thinkin' about all the different materials our killer had to have in order to pull off the crucifixions after The Angel murders. White paint, wood, huge nails, a big hammer, all those crazy brands--which by the way, where do you buy something like that? 'BurnMyFlesh' dot com? Anyway, same goes for The Devil killings--three metal tubs for the drownings. All that alcohol. The knife that was used to slit the boys' wrists. Not to mention a tarp or drop cloths to wrap the bodies in, and then finally somethin' to drive the DB's from the primary crime scenes to the dump sites. It's a lot of equipment."

"Where do those inferences lead us, then, Danny?"

"To me, Mac, it all adds up to construction. I was rememberin' workin' for my uncle back before I decided to become a cop, and I was thinkin' about how much stuff you could throw in the back of one of those trucks that's always on a site. My guess was that Eve here stole a truck from the first school's maintenance department, so I checked it out and gave 'em a call. Brand new two-door white Ford F-150 with no plates was stolen from Bay State Saturday, May 2nd--the day before the first killing."

Stella kept the train of thought going. "So Eve might have been posing as a construction worker at the other two schools in order to a) get close to her prey and b) steal supplies for the crucifixions."

Messer nodded, looking pleased with himself. "I called both UMass and Fordham to check on that. Yes to construction at both schools: the fraternities and the chapel, respectively. Anybody looks like they belong on a work site if they've got a paint cap yanked down over their eyes."

Mac clapped a hand on Danny's shoulder. "Great work, you two. At this rate I'm gonna want to recruit Lucy to make sure the Messer & Monroe family stays in crime scene investigation." He turned back to the map. "Now, let's find out how many of the schools along our second arm of the cross are currently under construction." He quickly searched the websites of the eleven schools for the keyword 'construction', and came up with four that were in the midst of remodels: Columbia University, The Albert Einstein College of Medicine, New York Evangelical Seminary and the American Beauty Institute.

Hawkes looked at the map, saying almost to himself, "So where's Eve gonna strike next?"

Stella had been staring at the white board for a while, and now she smacked a hand to her forehead, saying, "That's it!"

"What's it?" Mac had his eyes fully trained on his beautiful partner.

"The construction tools. It all fits into the next cause of death and another form of duality. Look. Even though our killer is driven by the tenants of Christianity, she's using the pagan elements as methods to carry out her killings. Smothering, drowning, branding. Air, Water, Fire. That leaves just one left--Earth."

"So what's she gonna do, stuff the guy full of tree bark or somethin'?" Danny was skeptical.

"I don't know," Stella replied. "But if the pattern holds, the last death will involve symbolism related to the Earth in order to complete Eve's twisted circle."

As my NY colleagues continued discussing the next target, suddenly I shut out their chatter and fixed my eyes on the table Doc had drawn earlier. Eve. _Eve._ A female killer who wants to warn of the Almighty's wrath by using the Earth to punish a man for a supposed grave sin against God. Adam and Eve. The Garden of Eden. The idea that only men and women should be together in Paradise. And just like that, the phrase violently slung around my family's dining room table so many years ago came flooding back to me. I could hear my father's fork crashing to his plate and the plate then flung against the wall as he screamed at my brother, "God made Adam and _Eve_, Matthew, not Adam and Steve!"

My older brother Matthew was 20 and home from Harvard for Thanksgiving when he came out to my parents. Despite Dad's explosions, Matty didn't apologize to anyone for who he was, and at the end of his senior year he fell in love with another Crimson student named Jack. Four years later, when Massachusetts became the first U.S. state to legalize gay marriage, Matt and Jack had a beautiful ceremony out on Cape Cod. They had survived years of name-calling, teasing, things thrown at them as they stood in line at the courthouse to get their marriage license. . .but the one thing they couldn't survive only had three little letters and ended up being a million times smaller than all of those other obstacles: HIV.

Contrary to what some people thought, Matty didn't get AIDS from Jack. He was in a horrible car accident a month after his wedding and had to have a blood transfusion--and the tainted blood they gave him somehow made it past all of the routine screenings. My beautiful brother--the brilliant, laughing kid who taught me to throw a baseball, to spit and to be proud of my red hair & green eyes--died a pale and tired man a year later, leaving my family and my brother-in-law devastated. This raging wave of sorrow hit me hard as I stood there, staring at the bright purple ink on the board. I snapped back to reality and whirled around, saying, "Guys. I've got it."

They stopped talking and looked at me. "We've got a killer named Eve who wants to warn humanity of God's wrath as it was at the very beginning of life," I said, catching the sob in my throat and shoving it back down for the moment. "So according to Christianity, what was the way of things in the beginning?"

"Adam and Eve," Mac said, without hesitating. "A man and a woman in the Garden of Eden." I didn't think Mac was real keen on the idea of guys marrying each other, but I respected his right to his own opinions. What I did know was that he took great pride in his commitment to protect all of New York City's citizens equally. I trusted him to honor that commitment now.

"Right. And what would be a grave sin in the eyes of someone who upholds this as God's vision for the world?"

Five pairs of eyes widened. Stella spoke. "She's hunting a member of the gay community."

"Do any of our four schools have a particularly strong Gay-Straight Alliance?"

Mac was back at the computer again, searching the websites of our four potential targets. Finally he found a link to the American Beauty Institute's gay rights group, called "Locks of Love." On the rainbow-colored homepage was a recent picture of the group's two founders, a man and a woman. The woman's name was Carrie Jones, and the man's name was. . . Adam. Adam White.

We all jumped into action. Mac was on the radio in a flash, yelling, "Flack! I need you to get to the American Beauty Institute ASAP! Address is 30 West 32nd. Suspect's name is Eve Black, 5'8'', 150 pounds, shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, likely dressed in painter's scrubs or construction worker's clothing. Target's name is Adam White-- Caucasian, blue eyes, short black hair with a swallow tattoo on his right forearm. Hurry!"

Mac turned to Lindsay and Hawkes, "Ok, guys--Danny and Elizabeth and I are gonna go try and intercept Eve before she commits murder one last time. What I want you to do is inspect the map for places she might dump the body in case we're too late. Stella, I want you on the phone to the school. Find out anything you can about Adam White and relay it to Flack."

Hawkes nodded. "We're on it, Mac."

"Danny, be careful."

"No worries, Mama Montana."

Danny, Mac and I took the elevator down to the lab's parking garage and hopped into a shiny black Suburban. Mac stuck the siren on top of the car and away we went. It took us about ten minutes, but finally we pulled up to the beauty school and radioed Flack. "Don, where are ya?" Danny said. The static of the radio crackled and then Flack's voice came back over, saying, "Guys, we're here in the main lecture hall where a class just got out. There's a spray can of somethin' on the ground and a whole ton of papers spilled all over the place. Name on the notes is Adam White. No sign of him, though. We've checked the cafeteria, parking lots, registrar's office--nothin'. "

"Shit," Mac said, hitting the steering wheel. "All right, have Adam photograph and bag the spray can. It's probably how she administered the sedative this time."

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was Hawkes. Flipping open the Razr, I said, "Yeah?"

"Liz? You guys still need that body dump site?"

"Unfortunately, it's looking like we might," I replied. "Gotta name?"

"Yeah, it's not due east of the school but it's the only park in the area. St. Gabriel's Park. On 1st between 35th and 36th."

"Seriously? Damn, what a fitting name. Thanks, buddy. Nice work."

I relayed the information to Mac, who then passed the new location over the radio to Flack. We sped southeast to St. Gabriel's Park, and were nearing the entrance when Danny spotted the white Ford F-150 crazily parked near a statue. We could see Flack jumping out of a squad car, gun drawn. He then ran behind the statue and out of our view. I realized I didn't want him anywhere near another murder suspect by himself and leapt out the door of the moving Suburban, hitting the ground hard before calling on my old track skills to sprint across the grass. I reached the back side of the statue to find Don pointing his gun at a disheveled woman.

Dressed in a painter's jumpsuit, Eve Black was standing with a shovel held over Adam White's head, who was lying motionless in the brown grass. She had a wild look in her eyes, one that made it clear she was being gripped by a force none of us could completely understand. Flack barked for what must not have been the first time. "Ms. Black, put the shovel down! Now!"

"No!" She screamed in a voice of desperation. "He is an abomination! A slap in the face of God! He must be destroyed and put back in the Earth!"

I quickly realized that rationality was not going to appeal to this woman. I lowered my own gun, holstering it. "Flack, it's ok. Lemme talk to her."

"Liz," he hissed out of the side of his mouth, "he ain't dead yet. I saw him breathe. We gotta take her out before she finishes the job."

"Just trust me." He grunted hard, then shrugged and lowered his weapon. By this time Danny and Mac had caught up with us, and ran around the other side of the statue so that Eve was completely surrounded.

"Eve," I said, in a powerful voice. "Eve, Daughter of Eden, listen to me."

"Who. . .who are you?" She loosened her grip on the shovel a tiny bit.

"I am a Messenger," I said. "A voice sent from on high to tell you that your work as The Angel and The Devil is finished."

"I don't believe you!" She was breathing quickly, and I knew her heart was pumping hard. I could practically see her neurons firing at blinding speeds. "I have not finished my holy charge! I know this man has been with another man--a sin! He must be punished so people will know that God is coming to wreak His havoc on all! "

I gritted my teeth. I saw Matty's face before me, his hazel eyes getting bigger by the second. "You can do it, Lizzie," he said, calmly. "You have to stop her." I shook my head and tried again. "Eve, listen. God has seen your work, and He is pleased. He wants you to come away and join Him in Eternity, a place where you will be rewarded for your devotion." I gestured to Flack. "This man will take you to that place. He is a Messenger, like me."

Flack caught on and nodded, solemnly. Eve dropped the shovel further, and that was all the window Mac needed. Running up behind her and yanking the garden tool from her hands, he tossed it away and pulled her arms behind her back. Flack was there in a flash, slapping cuffs on our Angel/Devil. She immediately turned her head skyward and wailed, "What is this, O God? Another test?"

"Hey, sweetheart, we promised you eternity," Flack said. "We just weren't specific about where." He tossed her in the back of the squad car and drove off. I exhaled deeply, silently thanking my brother for helping me keep it together.

Meanwhile, Danny and our Adam had checked Adam White's pulse, and found that he was indeed still alive. He'd be groggy as hell when the sedatives wore off, but that was a whole lot better than being dead. Mac called for an ambulance and our work in the park was done. I said my goodbyes to the CSIs and promised to meet up with them tomorrow.

About a half an hour later, I found Flack back at PD. He looked tired, but happy to have made an arrest. He smiled and put his arm around my shoulders as we walked out of the precinct.

"That was some pretty heady stuff back there, Lizzie, impersonating a Messenger from God. Where'd you pull that one out of, anyway?"

"I think you know that answer to that," I said, giving him a smirk.

"Hey, you wanna go get a drink or somethin'? That was a pretty intense day."

I looked at my watch. 3:30 PM. "A little early for a drink, doncha think? Let's go take a walk or head back to your place. I think there's a soccer game on." I was reluctant to see what Flack mixed with alcohol would create, even though he seemed to be in a good mood.

His face darkened, and he started to get irritated. "C'mon, what's the big deal? We had a crazy day and I want a drink."

I faltered a bit, stuttering. "I--I just think that maybe with everything that's happened in the last couple of days--and with your sister's struggles--that it might be good to be careful, is all."

Flack lashed out angrily. "What, so I'm not only damaged goods, but I'm gonna end up an alcoholic like Sam? Jesus, Liz! Last time I checked I was an adult that didn't need a damn babysitter."

"Hey, man, calm down. Look, I know what you're going through--"

I never got to finish my sentence. He completely exploded. "You WHAT? You know what I'm going through? Are you kidding me? Just because you're a damned shrink doesn't mean you understand what it's like to lose her, Liz! You think you're so smart with your mind games and your fucking degrees. . .well, ya know what? Here." He yanked his keys out of his pocket and slapped them into my hand. Hard. "You can go back to the apartment and watch your goddamn soccer game. I'm gonna go get a beer." He turned on his heel and stomped away, his sport coat whirling in the breeze as he went.

I just stood there, stunned, in the middle of Manhattan. People started bumping into me as they tried to navigate the uneven sidewalk, but I barely felt them. A numbing sensation had frozen my entire body to the pavement. Finally I slowly walked in the opposite direction of the way Flack had gone. Dazed, I wandered onto the subway and made my way back to the apartment. Unlocking Flack's door, I silently took my shoes off and made my way to the couch. And then the floodgates burst open.

The tears would not stop coming. Every cell in my body convulsed with grief. I cried for my family--for Matty, who found the love of his life only to have that life stolen away by a silent killer. I shook as I thought of my dead mother, who put up with so much shit from my dad only to have him abandon her after she found out she had cancer. And a place deep in my soul cracked open as I cried for Jess. Jess. Flack's raven-haired siren with the beautiful smile and kind eyes. The incredible woman who'd been taken from him and everyone else that loved her all because of greed. Another hard-working cop cut down just trying to do her job. Gasping for air as the heartache poured forth from my throat, I wondered: _what happens to the rest of us when our heroes are punished for doing what's right_?

I was still crying twenty minutes later when Flack came through the front door. Without a word, he came and sat next to me on the couch, folding me into his arms. "I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I didn't mean to make you feel like you couldn't take care of yourself. Or that I know exactly how you feel about losing Jess."

He shook his head. "No, it's all on me, pal. I'm so sorry, Lizzie. Please forgive me."

I sniffed. "It's okay. The funeral's tomorrow, so you must be feeling some anxiety about that. And you're right, I do stick my shrink's nose into other people's business sometimes when I shouldn't."

"You have nothin' to be sorry for," he responded, quietly. "That man back there, on the street--that man was a monster, and that's not the man I wanna be. You came down here from Boston to help me, and I repay you by yellin' in your face. It's not okay for me to do that, no matter how busted up I am over Jess."

I swallowed hard and nodded, accepting his peace offering. "You want to hear what I was gonna tell you when I said I know how you feel?"

He gave me a quizzical look. "Sure."

Taking a deep breath, I began. "Did I ever tell you about P.K.?" He indicated that I hadn't. "Patrick Aiden Kennedy," I said. "Pak-Man for short, as I called him. He used to call me Ruff Ryder 'cause of my driving (and my love of DMX, I guess). My partner on the force for four years and as Irish-American as you can get. The King of Southie. We got to be really close--spendin' time with each others' families, goin' out for drinks after shifts, talkin' about how much we wanted a drink during shifts." I smiled, remembering PK's dark eyes that would sparkle at the mere mention of Guinness. "We never dated or anything, 'cause that would've been like dating my brother. He was a helluva guy."

"Was?"

"Yeah. It's almost morbidly funny, looking back at it--three years ago we were in a Dunkin' Donuts in Roxbury between calls, fittin' the stereotype of two cops grabbin' a coupla maple bars." I was slipping back into my heavily accented cop talk, almost as if I was right there in the store again. Small but clean squares of white tile on the floor. The smells of chocolate and sugar wafting through the hot summertime air. Those two sweet girls behind the counter smiling as they handed over our tasty treats. "I had to go to the bathroom," I continued, "And as I'm washin' my hands I hear two gunshots. I run outta the john and there's PK, lyin' on the floor with a bullet in his chest. Some guy had come in all jacked up on angel dust, probably hallucinating. He shot my partner with no hesitation, then shot himself. Blood everywhere."

I stopped. The only two people who'd heard this story since it happened had been Casey and Dr. Vargas, BPD's shrink at the time. Flack waited patiently, and when I was ready I continued.

"I'm tryin' to radio for an ambulance with one hand while rippin' my shirt off and pressing it into his chest wound with the other. And the bus got there as soon as it could, but it wasn't soon enough. I was holdin' my buddy's hand when he died on the way to Mass General, my arms stained up to the elbows with his blood."

I looked at Flack. "I wasn't trying to be callous or make up emotions I didn't have, man. Although it's different because I didn't love PK like you loved Jess, I know what it's like to have to hand a badge back to a grieving father. I've tried to grasp onto life as it slips out of someone you care about. That's one of the reasons I really wanted to be here for you this weekend. I've been down there, Flack. And I know you'll get through this the same as I got through it."

He didn't speak for a long time. Finally, he got off the couch, went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. He came back, handed one of the waters to me, and rose his own glass in a toast. "To Jess and to PK," he said. "May they meet where the sun always shines and laughter never ends." An Irishman speaking from the heart. The sincerity in his face drove me to raise my own libation high in the air.

"I'll drink to that," I said, and we both downed our glasses in one gulp.

For the rest of the day, we sat on the couch sharing stories of the two good cops that had passed out of this world. It turned out that each of us owed our lives to the one we'd lost. He told me about Angell kicking the crap out of a suspect who'd gotten loose--and how she shoved Don off the street to save him from being struck by a taxi. "This was back before we were together," he said. "I'm distracted 'cause I'm tryin' to flirt with her, and this perp just flips his handcuffs from back to front, knockin' me in the face. But Jess, she takes one of those gorgeous long legs of hers and pops the bastard right in the chest. Bam! And that tackle, gettin' me out of the way of the cab? I don't think I've ever seen a linebacker do it better."

I pictured it in my head, almost sensing the raw power of Jess' body as she threw her colleague out of harm's way. Damn, but she made me proud to have been a cop. _Women everywhere_, I thought, _should look at her as the perfect combination of ferocity and femininity_. What a badass.

"PK never hesitated when I needed him either," I explained. "We were responding to a domestic disturbance in Jamaica Plain, and I had the wife in one corner of the room while he restrained the husband. I turn my back for one second and the wife's pulled my piece off my belt, pointing it first at her husband, then at me, yellin' at us to get out of the house and let her deal with the scum by herself. PK doesn't even think. He yanks out his nightstick and hits her square in the forehead with it just as she fires. Bullet grazes my ear as it goes into the ceiling but I secure the weapon."

Flack whistled. "Damn."

"Yep, Kennedy held that one over my head the rest of the time we were partners. Anytime we were out at a bar he'd yawn, stretch and say, 'So, Ryder, what am I drinkin' tonight?' If I balked at all, he'd say, in that huge accent of his, 'Remembah, there's a hole in that ceiling back in Jamaicah Plain that could've been in yoah head.' And of course I'd have to buy him the damned drink." I fell silent and laughed to myself, savoring the thoughts of my beloved Pak-Man.

After many refills of water, we turned on the TV, both of us becoming engrossed in the baseball game. Around the 5th inning I looked at him and said, "You gonna be okay tomorrow at the funeral?"

He exhaled hard, then shrugged. "I guess I don't know. But I'm gonna do my best to be strong for her, see that she gets the memorial she deserves. Right now I'm more worried about droppin' her walkin' into the church more than anything else."

"If she's gonna rest on six pairs of shoulders," I said, "I can't think of a better set to be there than yours."

Flack nodded. "Thanks. I'm glad you're comin'. She really liked you, you know."

I brightened. "Really?"

"Oh yeah, I never told you that? There were a couple of times I was bein' real stubborn about somethin' and she threatened to give you a call and get your help with whippin' me into shape. 'Liz and I are gonna kick your ass,' she'd say. And then she'd insult me in French." He smiled a weary smile, one of the first I'd seen all weekend. "I hope she knows how much I loved her. I can't believe I never said it."

"She knows, Flack. There's no way she couldn't see how much you cared about her."

When it was time for bed, I started to set up shop on the couch again but Flack beckoned me towards his room. "C'mon, Ryder, you should sleep in a real bed tonight."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, what kind of Messenger from God sleeps on a couch?"

I scoffed, and gave in. "'I'm never gonna live that one down, am I?"

"Nope."

We settled into bed, and Flack miraculously fell asleep in a matter of minutes. As I watched his chest rise and fall in a peaceful cadence, I found myself thinking not only about the day's events but those planned for tomorrow as well. We had stopped a dangerous killer from taking another life, and yet in nine hours we'd be mourning a life that couldn't be saved. I thought I was going to be lying awake the rest of the night when I swear I heard a woman's voice whisper gently in my ear. "Go to sleep, Liz," it said. "I'll see you guys out there in the morning."

The tension in my body was released. "Good night, Jess. We miss you. And Flack loves you."

"I know," she said, softly. "I've always known."

With that, I turned onto my stomach, closed my eyes and slipped away into the land of dreams.


	3. Sunday

**Sunday**

Sunday morning dawned, cold and grey. _Fitting_, I thought, _as Jess' death has cast a pall over the entire city_. It would be a day of wading through numbness, all of us continuing the endless search for comfort amongst deep sighs of grief.

Shifting slightly, I looked at my platonic bedmate. The sandman's magic still permeated Flack's body, and he had a slight smile on his face. I hoped he and Jess were laughing together—somewhere far away from the harsh reality he would awake to in a matter of moments. I slid out of bed as quietly as I could and walked out into the kitchen to get ready for the funeral. As I pulled on the black dress that had been hastily tossed into my suitcase two days earlier, the memory of a soft, calm voice that had sent me to sleep came flooding back into my head. "Thank you, Jess," I whispered. "We'll do right by you today."

About half an hour later, I was sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee when I heard a grunt of exasperation come flying out of Flack's room: "Arrgghh!" Easing the door open with my fingertips, I found my friend standing before a mirror in the crisp blues of his best dress uniform. They made for quite a contrast with the suit and crazily patterned tie he wore every day on the job. From his perfectly polished black shoes up to the collar of the stiff and starched dark top, his body screamed official business. The only thing out of place was the scrap of a black tie hanging limply around his neck.

"What's wrong?" I had a pretty good idea. "It's this damn tie," he said, lying. This prompted a _look_ through the mirror from me, and he sighed. "All right, it's not just the tie. It's today, Liz. This whole day makes what happened on Thursday real." He paused, thinking about his next words. Finally they came, slow and heartbreaking. "Y'know, even while I was holdin' her hand in the hospital--before Sid took her away--part of me was convinced that she was just asleep, and that she'd wake up any minute. Now, I'm gonna walk next to that hearse and help carry her into the church. . .and I won't be able to lie to myself anymore. She's really gone, and she ain't comin' back." I thought tears would come next, but instead he balled his hands into fists and screwed up his face, looking as though he might explode.

In that instant, I knew I was looking at a man who could have done anything with those fists: destroy the smudged glass of the mirror, beat his own chest in frustration—slug the bastard responsible for the loss of Jess' life over and over again until there was no blood left in the coward's body. I ran over to him and grabbed his shaking hands in my own. "Hey, hey," I said, softly. "Look at me, Don." He obeyed, and I nearly had to step back from the fires of anger erupting from his eyes.

"It's true that Jess' body will never draw breath again. You're right about that. But she's not gone." I took one of his hands and placed it over his heart. "She's still in here, and in the hearts of everyone that loved her. I know, man, believe me—I know what it is to feel the crushing darkness of that void when someone you love is taken from you. But you gotta keep her memory alive. Make sure nobody forgets her smile, her laugh, her wicked awesome roundhouse kicks."

He smiled a little at this, remembering, and as I began tying his tie I made the decision to prod a little bit. "Tell me about her smile, Flack. Pretend I never met her."

A protest soon followed. "Lizzie, I--"

"Please, D, just trust me, okay? This way anytime today it all feels like too much, you'll have her in your head and you'll make it through. Just try it."

He took a deep breath, and then slowly his hands began to unfurl out of their tightly clenched fists. "Okay. Her smile. Oh God--the first time I saw it, I couldn't breathe. It was like the clouds had opened and light was shinin' down from Heaven itself. I don't even remember what I said that made her laugh, but I knew right then that I was gonna try as hard as I could to keep her laughin', if only she'd give me that smile for a coupla seconds."

I saw his chest relax visibly as he continued. "She loved to laugh, and she had so many ways of doin' it. The side smirk she'd give ya when she knew she'd said somethin' funny; the flirty laugh where her eyes would disappear into these cute little lines." Here he stopped, his face turning serious. "I heard that laugh in her voice on the phone, right before the truck crashed through the glass." He then shook his head, determined to keep going with the good times. "But her belly laugh—man, she didn't give that one up too often. She had to be tough growin' up with four older brothers, y'know? When she did let it go, though, I felt like the luckiest guy on the planet. Her lips would spread, that gorgeous mouth would open and she'd throw her head back to toss that laugh out. So beautiful. Just so damn beautiful."

He fell silent, his hands coming up to inspect the tie. "Thanks, Lizzie," he said, quietly.

"No problem. Those things are a pain in the ass to do yourself."

"That's not what I meant. I mean, yeah, thanks for tying this stupid thing, but more importantly thank you for gettin' me through this. For helpin' me make sure she doesn't fade away. I really appreciate it."

"You know I'd do anything for you, D," I said. "Except root for the Rangers, that is." He laughed. "Besides," I said, a bit tentatively, "she talked to me last night before I zonked out."

He didn't look the least bit weirded out or skeptical. Instead, he pursed those long lips together, nodding. "What'd she say?"

"Just that she'd see us out there in the streets today. I thought I was gonna be up all night, but that soft voice. . .it just put me right to sleep."

Flack smiled. "Believe me, I know first-hand how her voice could make you do anything she wanted ya to. I'm glad she was with you last night. She talked to me for a while too."

I knew better than to ask what that chat had been about. My heart lifted at the thought of the two of them conversing together, as though they were once more drinking bad coffee out of paper cups over Flack's desk at the precinct. "Nice. She loves you too much to leave you alone, ya know. I'm, um--I'm ready to go whenever you are," I said, trying to line my voice with strength. He nodded his head once and I took that as my cue to exit the room. As I went, Flack began pulling his pristine white dress gloves on, one finger at a time. I noted the precision now present in his demeanor and knew that he would faithfully honor his love's memory with word and deed in the hours to come.

When Flack had successfully adorned himself with the day's proper regalia, we stepped out of the safety of his apartment and into the cold world. As we walked in the direction of the church, Don's face changed. The line of his chin hardened in seconds, and there now seemed to be a steel rod in place of his spine as he stiffened to his full height. Some of the sky's clouds appeared to have rushed into his eyes, for there were stormy whorls of grey surrounding his normally clear blue irises. Survival mode.

It was a wordless walk until we got to the street corner that forced our paths to diverge. His road would take him to the lineup of the funeral procession, while mine lead on towards the church. I put my arms around his waist and reached up his back, sending all of the positive energy I had coursing through my hands and into his body. He hugged me back, and to fight off the welling tears I whispered, "Just remember that smile." He himself was trying not to cry, and so instead of speaking he pulled back, put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. Then he turned and strode off to the west, off to the precinct to meet the crew that would help him demand his beloved's recognition from New York City.

I continued on, rubbing my arms to fight off the chill of sorrow. In a mere matter of blocks, a living sea of blue appeared before me. Thousands upon thousands of NYPD officers had lined the route Jess' casket was to take, five rows deep in places. The stark white of their dress gloves provided the only brightness amongst the crowd, for each face was the very essence of devastation. These somber masses stretched down 8th Avenue for what seemed like miles, and I knew there would be even more present as the hearse made its last two turns onto 48th and then finally Madison. Some officers were already crying, while others displayed masks of stone similar to the one Don had put on only minutes before.

My prediction regarding the thickening of the police presence turned out to be true as I headed east on 48th. Countless brass buttons did their best to gleam for Jess under the dark cloud cover; one could tell that many an officer had taken the time to polish her uniform just for this day. It was an awe-inspiring sight, all of these men and women standing together to mourn their fallen colleague. _The NYPD is more than just a police department_, I thought. _It's a family. A family mourning the loss of one of its own._

Eventually I reached Madison Avenue, and suddenly the glory of St. Patrick's Cathedral rose up in front of me. Its intricate Gothic towers seemed to stab at the sky, demanding that at least one hint of sunshine break through the choking clouds. The Cathedral's rose window gazed out over the saddened city, its patterned glass saying, "Trust me. I will take her in my petals and guide her home." The finely carved entryway to the church was thick with police officers, but at last I heard a familiar voice break through the throngs.

"Hey, Liz." Hawkes wrapped me in a strong hug and attempted a smile. "Sleep okay?"

"Yeah," I said, remembering the angel that had sent me into the world of dreams. "You?"

He shook his head, jamming his hands into the pockets of his dark suit. "Nah. Couldn't stop thinking about Jess. Wish I'd talked to her more, you know? Our paths didn't cross nearly as much as they should have." He shook his head sadly. "But I'm just gonna hang on to the moments I do have." Sheldon's familiar look of determination crossed his face, and that, I knew, was to be that. Gently grasping my elbow, he steered me to the other side of the entryway, where Lindsay, Sid and Adam were huddled together in a protective circle. A mass of baby blankets in Lindsay's arms indicated that everyone, big and small, was to mourn Jessica Angell today.

Embraces were shared all around, and I saved a big one for Sid. I hadn't yet seen the blessedly quirky Medical Examiner, and I noted palpable weariness upon stepping into his arms. I knew Sid had always cared for Jess--a connection that ran far deeper than his penchant for flirting with lovely women might indicate. Thus the task of preparing her body for this time-honored ritual must have left a deep gash across the plane of his heart. I kissed him on the cheek and we all stood for a long time in silence, feeling the pain in the surrounding air seep through to the very marrow of our bones.

"Where's Papa Bear and the rest of the crew?" I asked Lindsay, blowing on my bare hands. "They standing in a special spot?"

Lindsay affirmed this with a sad shake of her head. "Yeah, you could say that. They're going to walk with the hearse and then help Flack bring Jess into the church."

"Wow." I gave a low whistle. "Wasn't expecting that. I figured it'd be all blues."

"Yeah, we weren't either," said Adam. "But, uh, Jess' dad, he heard about what Mac did for her after she died--pushing us to catch her killer and all--and Mr. Angell specifically requested Stella, Mac and Danny for the job."

I was going to say something about what an honor that was, but just then the first faint beats of the NYPD Emerald Society's drums perked up every ear on Madison Avenue. "This is it," Hawkes said. "Let's take our places." The five (and a half) of us made our way to the foot of the cathedral steps, standing near an eclectic mix of political and church officials. The Mayor stood shoulder to shoulder with the Church's Monsignor, and I did not envy the occupant of New York City's highest elected office today. Tasked with giving the eulogy, I think he knew as well as anyone that mere words would never do justice to the woman that had been taken from us.

Jess' father and four brothers stood on the other side of the steps from where our little band had gathered. Mr. Angell's sons stood behind him, their dark hair and eyes smacking so much of their fallen sister. They all held their heads high, but there were small signs of anguish everywhere. From Jess' oldest brother's quivering lips to the youngest's fingernails digging into his own palms, the family looked broken. I could not help but notice a piece of leather clutched tightly in Mr. Angell's right hand. I wondered what it was, but was trying not to crane my neck too conspicuously. And then as he raised his hand to scratch his face, I saw a flash of light in the shape of four numbers: 9521. Angell's badge. The symbol of devotion to this city that had sat on her hip throughout all of the drug busts, perp transfers, interrogations and arrests was now in the weathered hands of its original owner.

Saddened by the sight of the Angell men in the midst of their suffering, I turned my attention back to the CSI team members. Lindsay was softly humming a song of comfort to Lucy, who stirred a little bit and then opened her tiny mouth in a yawn. Sid seemed to prepare himself for the procession by exhaling audibly, his breath blowing through those grey bangs situated over his glasses. Adam, in a likely attempt to channel his agitation, was fidgeting with a zipper on his rather bulky jacket. Hawkes contemplated the crowded streets, his dark eyes absorbing every detail as they scanned the crestfallen faces of New York's finest. _What a brilliant and compassionate man_, I thought to myself. _No stranger to heartache is he_. I reminded myself to ask about his uncle's passing when this was all over.

These murmurs of individual activity, however, gave way to a collective cessation of all noise when we heard the first exhaust backfire. As we swept our eyes down the street, at least fifteen police motorcycles slowly made the turn from 48th onto Madison. Their flashing lights illuminated the onlookers' NYPD insignia with bursts of brilliant red and blue--as if to say, "Do not forget--a crime has been committed." They rode on past the church and down about a block to make room for the rest of the procession.

Then came the musicians of the Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, dressed in brightly colored uniforms complete with pleated kilts. The pipers all had their instruments tucked under their arms, the ends protruding like swords. Lindsay and I jumped as the drum cadence rang out like gunshots, echoing off the surrounding buildings and flying straight into our chests. **Bass. Bass. Snaaaaaaare--Bass. Boom. Boom. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat Boom**. This haunting and bare pattern continued, and as the band passed by, each group of officers stood up a little straighter. They knew what was coming next. As the Emerald Society neared, I could see that each musician had attached a small piece of tape to his drum or set of bagpipes. Just two letters adorned each scrap of tape: J.A. The officers of the Pipes and Drums were seeing to it that Jess' memory would never slip away. They continued on a little ways beyond the cathedral and then turned around, facing back towards the way they had come.

And at last, she arrived. Slowly, ever so slowly, a sleek black hearse made its way down the trail of tears Madison Avenue had become. Countless gloved hands were brought to their corresponding foreheads and snapped crisply down again as the car's tires edged onward. The Emerald Society began playing "An Inspectors Funeral," filled with lingering notes that sounded like wails in the face of injustice. I had learned that this music was reserved especially for fallen officers of the NYPD, and I sincerely hoped that this would be the last time the blues lining the sidewalks would ever have to hear it.

My heart nearly burst out of my chest at my first glimpse of Flack's face. Standing on the right side of the hearse, Don's eyes were fixed straight ahead. His long legs had to compensate for the slow pace of the car, but he never stutter-stepped. Never faltered. He was the epitome of strength, and although he did not look angry he still had about him the air of a man who was not to be trifled with. In that very moment, as I stood and watched Flack guide Jess' black chariot onward to the church, I realized just what a massive part of himself he had lost. What a huge piece of his heart would be buried in the ground with her body in a matter of hours.

At least he was not alone on his journey. Not physically, anyway. The hearse's doors were flanked by four cops that had worked closely with Angell--my boys, as she had called them. Each officer did his best to match Flack's slow yet deliberate gait, sometimes touching gloved fingertips to the windows. An attempt to reach out for their colleague and friend. . .foiled by the indifference of the car's cold metal and glass.

The three remaining corners of the hearse were under the care of CSI team members. Mac was on Flack's left, his usual expression of intellectual inquisitiveness having given way to one of an awareness of duty. His military training radiated from every footfall as efficiency and order did their best to beat back the inferno of rage. His partner was not faring as well in the quest for stoicism. Stella occupied the car's left rear section, and as the procession drew closer I could see her eyes blinking furiously in an attempt to banish the threatening tears. I ached for Stella. She and Jess had been working on a dangerous case that closed just before Angell's death, and so aside from Flack, Stella probably had the greatest cache of memories dragging thorns of Jess' mannerisms through her mind.

Danny was also failing to mask his fury. I could actually see his jaws grinding away at each other as the reaper's limousine came to rest not twenty feet from where I stood. The drums stopped, and silence reigned over a street that was usually one of the busiest in New York City. The eight hearse escorts moved to the back of the car, where Flack opened the door. He and Mac disappeared for a moment, and then slowly they began easing the casket out of the car. Two of Jess' boys supported the coffin, then two more, and then finally Don and Mac hoisted the rich mahogany wood onto their shoulders. I had to refrain from crying aloud--the symbolism of my friend literally carrying the weight of his slain lover between his shoulder blades was almost too much.

As the pallbearers began carrying the casket draped in a green-striped flag towards the entrance to the church, the sound of a lone horn cut through the electric air. The familiar notes of "Taps" came cascading down upon all that were gathered near, and I could not stop myself. Like the four friends standing at my side, I began to cry.

The Mayor and the Monsignor met the casket at the very bottom step, and Jess' shepherds stopped. Hands folded across their stomachs as their precious cargo sat atop six broad shoulders, each man stood tall. Flack was only a couple of feet away from me, and I could feel the sheer bravery emanating from his body. The Monsignor began circling the casket, gently sprinkling holy water onto the flag as he went. When he had completed his path, he and the Mayor turned their backs, and Angell's pilgrimage from street to altar began. The pallbearers' faces twisted into the collective essence of concentration as they bore Jess' body up the concrete steps. Danny and Stella followed close behind, ready to jump in should one of the officers falter. The five Angell men joined the line of mourners next, eyes fixed on their cherished sister and daughter. When they had completely disappeared inside the church, Lindsay, Sid, Adam, Hawkes and I began our own ascent into the grand house of God.

And grand it was. As we stopped just inside the doors, waiting for Jess and her family to reach the end of the aisle, I took in the magnificent surroundings. Cavernous carved arches stretched at least fifty feet above our heads, serving to lengthen the polished path along which our feet had to travel. Intricately crafted statues were everywhere, the chiseled white marble having expertly captured everything from Jesus' suffering to Mary's undying devotion. Fittingly, stained glass windows of brilliant blue adorned a dome at the very front of the cathedral.

Don and Mac led their crew down the long aisle, passing countless pews that would soon be completely filled. Upon reaching their destination, the pallbearers slowly and carefully eased the casket onto an ornately decorated table. Even at a great distance, I could see Flack gently touch the rim of the flag with his gloved fingers before making his way to a seat next to Mr. Angell. When all of the men had moved away, I became completely overwhelmed by the spot where Jess' body had come to rest.

Reaching high above the casket was a gilded arch, gleaming brilliantly in the lone ray of sunshine that had come streaming through the windows above. Tendrils of golden hues  
curled around the arch from floor to apex, and as I gazed upon its glory I knew that this was perhaps the only place in New York City truly fit for Flack's angel.

After making our way down the impressive aisle, the CSIs and I eased into the pew directly behind Danny, Mac and Stella. Lindsay reached out and, without a word, placed her hand on Danny's shoulder. Lucy's father reached for it and grasped it tightly in his own palm, lacing his fingers between that of his wife's. Not a word was spoken as we gazed upon the now flower-covered coffin that lay before us. While my eyes drank in the sight I had been dreading for days, the flood began behind us.

It seemed as though the flow of people would never end. In fact, it took at least twenty minutes for all that wished to mourn Jessica Angell to file into the cathedral. I turned once in my seat to look upon the thousands of lives that had been touched by the dedicated young woman who would never see any of their faces again. As I expected, every pew was filled, and not a square inch of standing room was left unoccupied. At last, the heavy wooden doors closed, and the Monsignor made his way to the altar.

He began the service with a blessing for Jess, entreating the Almighty to receive her soul into His care. Raising the arms of his finely crafted robes into the air, the Monsignor looked like a dove preparing to take flight. The Angell family was next acknowledged, as the Monsignor wished them the same strength that God's Son displayed as he went to his death on the cross. Then the following prayer was uttered, meant to comfort all those that Jess had left behind:

_May He support us all the day long,  
till the shades lengthen, and the evening comes,  
and the busy world is hushed,  
and the fever of life is over and our work is done!  
Then in His mercy may He give us a safe lodging,  
and a holy rest, and peace at the last._

I'd been to a few other Catholic funeral services in my tenure on the planet, and had always felt somewhat empty upon their conclusion. The funerals always seemed to be more of a shout-out to Jesus rather than a recognition of the deceased. But the Monsignor expertly blended his duty to God with a firm acknowledgment of Jess' individuality. He asked those present to stand, and the sound of thousands of people leaving their seats was akin to that of a tidal wave approaching. In line with the prayer that had just been offered, we sang "The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns." My voice cracked with the first few words, still saturated with the tears I had shed outside. But it soon cleared and I raised my voice to the church rafters for Jess. When we had all taken our seats once more, the Monsignor called upon the Commissioner of the NYPD to come forth and speak.

The Commissioner was a relatively young man for the position of power he held, but one could tell that he'd aged at least a decade over the last few days. He climbed the stairs leading up to the church's massive pulpit, pulled out a few notes, and began to speak:

"Thank you, Monsignor. Today, the NYPD mourns our fallen colleague--Detective Jessica Angell, who was taken from us by cowardice much too soon. Detective Angell was everything you could ask for in a police officer: smart, confident, assertive and resourceful. She had a wonderful sense of humor, something everyone who met her could not help but notice."

Lucy picked this exact moment to make a joyful noise that sounded much like laughter. The baby's happy cry reverberated throughout the church, and smiles broke out in every pew. Lindsay shushed her daughter but grinned, sniffing as she gently bounced her knees up and down to keep Lucy quiet. Flack turned around and, reaching over, caressed Lucy's small cheek with a finger. He looked at me as he shifted back to the front, his blue eyes glassy with the threat of tears.

The Commissioner continued. "I myself had the pleasure of meeting Detective Angell about a year ago, in the middle of a routine inspection. A woman came running into the precinct, with torn clothes and a frightened look in her eyes. She was yelling in French and needed help. Detective Angell immediately jumped up from her desk, holding her hands out to show she meant no harm while slowly speaking to the woman in her native language. Jessica took this scared victim to her desk, and calmly figured out what had happened. The woman was an African immigrant that had managed to escape from an attempted rape not far from the precinct. Angell took the victim's statement and then led her to a place where she could calm down after her traumatic experience.

When Detective Angell came back to her desk, I congratulated her on moving to help the woman in need so quickly. She gave me a firm handshake, looked me right in the eye, and said: 'Just doing my job, sir. Besides, it was a good chance to practice my French.' Her humility and true desire to help others stuck with me, and I know she inspired many of her fellow officers to work harder in the pursuit of justice. I am deeply saddened that we will never again see her walk the halls of the NYPD."

Turning to Jess' dad and her brothers, he said, "To the Angell family, our thoughts and prayers are with you in this time of sorrow. Your daughter and sister was a model cop, doing your family tradition of NYPD service proud. She was loved by many and will be missed by New York City's entire law enforcement community." The Commissioner looked at Flack as he said this last line, adding weight to my already heavy heart.

"In honor of Detective Angell's memory, her badge number will be displayed prominently in every precinct as a reminder of the sacrifice this young woman made to keep our communities safe. She was the embodiment of the Latin phrase we use in the case of a passing in the NYPD--Fidelis Ad Mortem, or Faithful Unto Death. If you would, please join me in a moment of silence for Jessica."

Eyes closed and heads bent around the cathedral. _Jess_, I thought to myself, _wherever you are, I hope you're looking down on us and that you see see how much everyone loves you. I wish we'd gotten to know each other better. But I'll never forget the few times we spent together, and I make this promise to you now--I will help Flack through this. I will make sure he survives. The world is an emptier place without you in it. . .I'll miss you._

After a minute or two, the Commissioner turned towards the casket and said, "Thank you, Jessica, for giving so selflessly to the citizens of New York City. The NYPD is proud to have counted you among its ranks." He now faced the coffin completely, raised his arm to his brow in a salute, and walked back to his pew.

When the Commissioner was seated once more, Mayor Bloomberg made the same journey up to the pulpit. As he went, I wondered what was running through his mind and heart--how he felt about eulogizing a woman he'd never met._ I suppose, though,_ I thought, _that like the Mayor, Jess was a living symbol of New York City. Of its people and their needs._ I hoped that such a connection would aid the slight, grey-haired politician standing before us. He cleared his throat and spoke:

"In the long and rich history of the NYPD," Bloomberg began, "seven hundred and sixty-eight of its officers have fallen in the line of duty." I bristled, my inner red flags suddenly standing at full attention. Was he really going to turn this sacred time into a math lecture? I was quickly comforted, though, as the Mayor continued.

"Those brave men and women all made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of service--in the midst of working to secure our city. And now, we here on Earth must send Detective Jessica Angell home to Heaven to be with those heroes that came before her.

If tasked with protecting a city of eight million people, most would shy away from the enormity of the job. Too many neighborhoods, they might say. Too many warring ethnic groups. And always, too many new ways that criminals are breaking the law. But the men and women of the NYPD do not shy away from this charge. In fact, they embrace it, and from what I am told of Detective Angell she approached the challenge of keeping her citizens safe with passion and zeal every single day. To be in her presence was to be inspired by her love of the law--to want to care for others as she did."

The Mayor went on, painting a fuller picture of Jess' past. He described the challenges she faced in overcoming the death of her mother at a young age, and smiled as he explained the origins of Jess' thick skin. "Growing up with four older brothers meant that she had to learn to hold her own, and from what I understand she eventually held off each and every one of you." Bloomberg then relayed the reaction of Angell's father when, at the age of 16, she announced that she was going to be a cop. "She wouldn't take no for an answer," said the Mayor, his angular face conveying a look of persistence. "She was going to be an officer of the NYPD and there was nothing anyone could do to stop her." Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Mr. Angell, and miraculously his tear-stained face was smiling.

Jess' heroism was discussed next, the last day of her life taking center stage. "As she stared death in the face," said the Mayor, "Jessica held her ground and took just enough out of one of the kidnappers to point our crime scene investigators in the right direction. She led us right to the blackhearted, evil men that had taken her life--a fighter to the very end." Flack and the CSI team members collectively drew in an audible breath, no doubt feeling Thursday's horror rush through their veins. The Mayor did not dwell long on Jess' murder, though. Instead, he moved on to the story of how she threw Flack out of the taxi's path, and her bravery was broadcast throughout the cathedral. "Just as in many other aspects of her life," Bloomberg said, "Detective Angell did not hesitate. She trusted herself and her ability to save her colleague, and she acted. She and the strength of her body ensured that her partner would live to work another day." At this, Flack's face of stone finally cracked, and while he did not sob or sniff, one tear fell from each clear blue eye into his lap.

"To those that worked closely with Detective Angell, you know better than anyone how well she answered the call of duty. From the big arrests to the most routine departmental procedures, your colleague took great pride in the badge she wore. I would ask that you honor her memory by emulating her dedication to her work--by rising each day determined to make a difference in the lives of the people we are sworn to protect. Let us never tire of trying to improve the city for which she gave her life."

I reached out and placed my hand on Flack's shoulder as the Mayor went on, squeezing lightly. _I know you'll make her proud,_ said my hand to his body. _I know you'll always make her proud._

"Like every one of our fallen officers, Jessica Angell was more than a number. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend and one of New York's finest. Her memory now lives in each one of us, and we are indebted to her for what she gave to this city. In honor of Detective Angell's memory, tonight the Empire State Building will be lit with lights of bright blue. Gaze upon those lights and remember the strength Detective Angell showed, right up to her very last breath. Remember what she gave so that we might continue on. Remember what this heroine valued above all: duty."

The Mayor turned to face Jess' casket, like the Commissioner had done. "New York City will never be the same without you, Jessica. Thank you for your service."

So saying, he clambered down the pulpit steps and took his seat. The Monsignor approached the casket, blessing Jess' ascension into Heaven to be with God:

_Father, I place Jessica into your hands;  
Acknowledge a sheep of your own fold,  
A lamb of your own flock,  
A sinner of your own redeeming.  
Enfold Jessica in the arms of your mercy,  
In the blessed rest of everlasting peace,  
And in the glorious company of the saints in light._

I wasn't so sure about the "sinner" business, but that was just my own complicated relationship with religion shining through again. He performed a few more funerary rituals before facing the massive congregation once more. Raising his right hand into the air, the holy man standing before us gave forth a benediction:

_Now, may the God of peace, who, through the eternal covenant, brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing His work. May He work in us what is pleasing to Him, through Jesus Christ, to Whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen. _

As Flack and the other pallbearers rose and moved to bear the casket once more, the CSIs and I looked at each other, overwhelmed by what we had just experienced. Nobody spoke. The cathedral's huge organ began to sing out the beautiful notes of "Amazing Grace," and I put my arm around Lindsay's shoulder as she continued to cradle Lucy close. Spontaneously, those gathered in the pews began to sing along, and in a matter of moments the church was filled with the sound of thousands of voices coming together as one. One voice to send Jess home. One of Jess' boys that had accompanied her coffin to the altar was crying too hard to take her back into the street, and Danny, upon seeing this, quickly stepped in behind Flack to take the uni's place. Stella, meanwhile, stuck close to Mr. Angell and his sons, and as the recessional slowly began making its way back down the long aisle she gently directed Jess' family to follow their daughter and sister out onto Madison Avenue.

When Angell had been borne all the way out of the church, we began filing out as well. Hawkes, Lindsay, Sid, Adam and I made it down the cathedral steps in time to see Don and Mac easing the last of the casket back into the hearse. Preparing Jess for her final ride in an NYPD vehicle. I knew the crowd would break up and a much smaller procession would head to the cemetery, but suddenly I felt out of place. I wanted to be there for Flack as he placed his love into the ground, but I didn't want to intrude. I'd never met the Angell men before, and I was pretty sure the sight of strangers at Jess' burial was not what they needed at the moment. Hawkes noticed my furrowed brow and turned my face to his own with his hand. "What's up, Doc?"

"I'm not sure I should go with you guys to the grave site," I said. "I don't know if I belong there."

"Liz." Hawkes' head shook disapprovingly. "Did you or did you not come running down here on Friday when you found out that we needed you? That Flack needed you?"

"That's different, man. That's just moral support. A burial is a private thing, and I don't know that I met Jess enough times to warrant a place by the side of her grave, you know?"

His dark eyes softened. "It's not about the number of times you meet somebody, Liz. What matters is the impact a person has on your life. Jess touched your heart both in person and through Flack, and because you care about him that means you cared about her too. Remember that even though you're trying to help everyone else here, you gotta say goodbye to Jess yourself. Feel that closure. That's what you psychotherapists say all the time, right?"

I smiled. "You got it."

"We all want you to be there with us, and I know Flack does too." Sid, Adam and Lindsay all nodded their heads in agreement.

I blushed and stared at the pavement. "Thanks, you guys. Um, any chance I can get a ride out there with one of you?"

Sid piped up. "Except Lindsay and Lucy, we're all driving out there together in my ancient VW bug," he said, grinning. "Quite few stories from that car, let me tell you. Anyway, you're welcome to squeeze in the backseat."

We headed in the direction of said vehicle and split off from Mama Montana and her little one. As we walked, the flashing lights of the procession began again, and the midnight-black hearse glided past on its way to the cemetery.

The ride out to the grave site was quiet, marked by much staring out of the windows into the distance. Adam's breathing quickened at one point, and he looked as though he might yank out a few eyelashes in the midst of his anxiety. Because the two of us were occupying the rear of Sid's Bug, I reached over and took his hand. He held it tightly, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths until his pulse returned to normal. Startlingly, the cemetery loomed ahead of us within ten minutes, and I was stunned. I'm always amazed at the various types of terrain one can encounter in and around New York City. We found a spot in the visitors' parking lot and began an uphill trek onto the hallowed ground of the dead. I thought about all of the bodies resting here and wondered where their souls lay. _In the hearts and minds of someone they loved, I hope._

After cresting the incline, we spotted Jess' saddened entourage not far away. It was difficult to miss, what with Flack and the other police officers marching in step beside the hearse. We continued along the road until a green tent in the grass beckoned us from the paved path. Gathered underneath this tent were the Angell men, the officers that had worked with Jess, the chief of the 1-2, Stella, Lindsay (sans Lucy) and a few other faces I did not recognize. Probably family members. I swallowed hard and again hoped I was not impinging upon this most important of days.

Also standing with this group was a minister--not the Monsignor as I had expected. This man of the cloth was clad in a simple white robe with a purple stole, and I inferred that he must have been connected with the Angell family for some time. For while he clasped a worn Bible in one hand, the other was wrapped around the broad but sagging shoulders of Jess' father. The whole crew was gathered around a rectangular void in the ground--Jess' final resting place. The finely crumbled soil appeared soft, and I took comfort in the idea that a woman who lived so fully in her time on the earth was now being returned to its natural embrace for safekeeping.

The hearse stopped by the spot the CSIs and I had just passed on our way towards the tent, and upon the minister's signal, Don, Mac, Danny and the other officers slid Angell's coffin out of the hearse for the last time. Their steps were slow and careful as they made their way past the gravestones of Angells that had passed on long ago. The family (of English origins) had been in New York for a long time, and Jess was to be surrounded by many who shared her proud history. The casket was gently placed onto the mechanism that would lower her body into the ground, and when this solemn task was finished the pallbearers stepped back to join the circle of mourners. Don was headed towards Mac and Stella, but suddenly Mr. Angell shifted out of the minister's comforting embrace and touched Flack's arm. He motioned that Flack should stand next to him, and my heart just broke in half. The man that probably would have been Flack's father-in-law was treating him like a son.

The minister asked us to all join hands and create a circle of love in Jess' memory. I had Hawkes on one side and Lindsay on the other, and both of their grips gave me strength. I gazed across the circle and saw Mac and Stella look at each other as they clasped hands. He gave her the lightest kiss on the top of her curly hair, then returned his face to its rock-solid expression. Danny was on Lindsay's other side, and both halves of the passionate couple were seconds away from crying. While I enjoyed Lucy's presence at the funeral, I was glad that the her parents were now able to take a few moments and process their agony as Jess' friends. Adam and Sid had ended up next to each other, and Sid gave his colleague the hint of an encouraging smile through his already-flowing tears.

"Creator," the minister began, "we thank you for the time that Jessica Angell was given with us here on Earth. We remember the service she gave to this city as an officer of the New York City Police Department, and we ask that you give strength to those of her colleagues that are feeling the void left by her death. Merciful God, we pray that Jessica's family may find peace and comfort in the wake of such a tragedy. May the men who loved her dearly be blessed with endless memories of her smile, her laugh and her spirit. All this we pray in Jesus' name. Amen. Please join me in a moment of silence for Jessica."

I took this moment to remember the first time I'd met Jess. I was nervous--Flack had told me so much about her, and I didn't know how she'd feel about meeting a woman that used to sleep with her boyfriend. But the second I walked into Flack's apartment that day, she came right up to me, shook my hand, and flashed me that brilliant smile. The first words out of her beautiful mouth? "Nice to meet you, Liz. I'm glad you're here. You gotta help me prove him wrong about something." She had gestured to Flack, and I was immediately at ease, putting on my best badass face and quipping, "uh-oh. . .what'd you do now, D?" The grin on his face at seeing the two of us gang up on him could have lit up the Vegas strip for a week.

The images before me were blurring into tears when the minister amended a centuries-old saying to give Jess her final send-off: "For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He turned to Flack, saying, "Detectives, if you would, please."

Flack left Mr. Angell's side and, with Danny's help, slid the green and white flag off of Jess' casket. They folded it with great care and precision, and when they were finished Flack took the flag back to Mr. Angell. He placed it in the hands of Jess' father and the two men shared an embrace. The flowers from the church were placed back on top of the rich wood, and when all had had a chance to touch the casket, the minister gave another nod and it began its descent six feet deep into the ground.

The sounds of sniffing and tears were the only noises to be heard--but only for a minute or so. Stella's rich voice suddenly cut through the air, as she began to sing a miroloyia, or Greek lament. The sounds of an ancient language filled the air, and I pictured a scene as it might have transpired three thousand years ago--women with those same striking Bonasera features tearing at their hair while they sent their loved ones down to the Kingdom of Hades. She gave Jess the gift of these words as the fallen angel was lowered into her grave:

_Σήμερα, που ξανάγινε χώμα το κορμί, σήμερα, που ψάχνω να βρω ακόμα το γιατί. Ποια λέξη να σου πω δεν βρίσκω τίποτα αφού το σ' αγαπώ το λέω ακόμα..._

Her slow and sad wails quickly sent us all into uncontrollable sobbing. I asked Stella much later what the words had meant, and she told me that they signified the following:

_Today, when the body turned back to soil,  
Today, when I still search to find out "why"_

What word should I tell you  
I can't come up with anything  
Since I still say  
"I love you"..."

The last notes floated into the surrounding air just as the coffin came to rest at the bottom of the aperture. Taking a small handful of soil from a plant pot at his feet, the minister gently sprinkled it onto the casket below. "May you rest in peace, my child," he said quietly. The circle was broken at last, our hands extracted from each others' as we turned inward to grieve alone once more. I walked alongside Danny and Lindsay as the CSIs made their way back to the paved road. Flack was standing with the Angell family and I didn't want to pull him away from the living connections to his lost love. I had almost reached the edge of the grass when suddenly I stopped and did a 180. I took quick steps back towards Jess' grave, managing somehow to keep my heels from sinking into the soft ground. Wringing my hands, I came up behind a momentarily quiet Mr. Angell and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Angell--sir?" I swear my voice jumped an octave above its normal range. . .I was nervous, and apparently my way of showing that was to sound like a prepubescent boy.

He slowly turned towards me, and looking into his eyes I instantly understood why parents are not supposed to bury their children. I could literally see the void left by the missing piece of his soul that now lay in the Earth's loam not five feet away. I immediately regretted bothering him--the man was, after all, standing next to his only daughter's grave. "Um--never mind," I said. "I--I'm so sorry about what happened." My cheeks flushed a brilliant red and I turned to run towards the safety of Danny and Lindsay. But before I could flee, I found a strong, leathery hand placed in the crook of my arm. "What is it, sweetheart?" His voice was the auditory equivalent of a rag doll--in tatters from the sharp knives life had flung his way in the last four days. But underneath the rasps I sensed curiosity and care. I stared at the grass, completely forgetting what I was going to say. So I started with my name. "Well, I'm--uh--my name is Liz, sir. Liz Ryder. I knew your daughter, you see--"

He squeezed my arm a little bit and his face showed hints of recognition. "I know who you are, Liz," he said, with the kind of frank but calm wisdom that comes only after a lifetime on the force.

My face twisted into lines of confusion. "But--I--we've never met, sir."

Detective Sergeant Angell gave a knowing nod, then took my arm and led me a little ways away from his sons. "First of all, honey, quit callin' me sir. Makes me feel old, and I've already aged enough over the last few days, doncha think?" I nodded, feeling horrible, until I saw the tiniest smile on his face. "I know who you are because Jess told me about ya."

"Oh." Anything remotely resembling an intelligent phrase was nowhere to be found.

"She stopped by last Wednesday for lunch. Last time I ever saw her, now that I think about it. We talked about a lot of things, and she told me she was gonna go see one of our old family friends up in Boston in a couple of weeks. Jess said that while she was up there, she was gonna give you a buzz and make you take her out for a beer. She told me all about how you used to be a uni but got your shrink degree a while back. Told me you knew Flack and helped out the CSIs once or twice. She was really lookin' forward to seeing you."

I gasped as though I'd been kicked in the stomach. While I glowed with happiness at the knowledge that she'd wanted to deepen our friendship, I felt cheated. Robbed of the laughter that might have been shared between Jess and I as we swapped stories about everything from sexist pigs on the force to the most comfortable shoes to wear on a beat. I was so stunned that words failed me for a few seconds. Finally I looked straight back into the eyes of the exhausted man standing before me and said:

"I'm sorry she and I never got to have that beer, Mr. Angell. And I'm sorry you're going through this nightmare. I came down here to tell you that I had deep respect for your daughter, both as a cop and a person. I've never met anyone like her before, and I don't expect to ever meet anyone quite like her again. "

I took a deep breath and continued, nervous again for some reason. "I also wanted to tell you that if you or your sons need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. I know you probably have lots of people to lean on, and I know you don't know me at all, but, well, it's my job, and--"

He held up a hand, thankfully cutting off my rapid drivel. "Liz. Thank you for your offer of help. I appreciate it. And there is somethin' you can do for me."

"Please, name it."

He put his arm around my shoulders so that our backs were completely turned to the young men standing behind us. Lowering his voice, he bent his head towards mine. "I want you to keep an eye on Don."

I nodded vigorously but said nothing. He went on. "He made my baby laugh," he said. "He made her happier than I've ever seen her before. And because she cared about him, I care about him too. I don't wanna see him lose his mind or anything in all this mess, okay? I'm never gonna see my daughter again, Liz. At least promise me that he'll stick around so I can see the part of her that's in him. "His voice finally gave out again, and his eyes filled with tears. He took my hands in his own and repeated, "Promise me."

I don't know what came over me, but I took Jess' father into my arms and held him close. I hugged him with the power of two--holding on tight for me and for his daughter that would never again touch her hands to his body. "I promise," I whispered. "I'll take good care of him. Not as well as she did, but I promise I'll take care of him." He collected himself, raised his chin high, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he said, before turning and walking back to his four remaining children.

"No sir. . .thank you," I whispered, as images of me and Jess shopping, clubbing and drinking together quickly swept across my mind. I realized for the first time how much Angell and I were alike, and my heart cursed the gods for taking such a strong woman from the world. The sorrow I had mostly managed to beat back for three days finally overtook my body, and the consuming weight was too much to bear. I started to cry, and as the hot tears flowed like rivers over my face, I ceased to maintain the ability to stand up straight. Sinking down onto my haunches, my knees fell into the wet grass and I hung my head while I continued to sob. Any pretenses I had established with the CSI team while trying to portray myself as "Liz Ryder, tough Masshole shrink with an extra one-liner always tucked in her back pocket" came crashing to the earth as I sat in the dirt and cried. I knew they were all probably watching from the road, and yet I didn't care. When my eyes had completely drained, I moved to stand up again but felt a hand on my left shoulder. I turned and looked up into Flack's face as he wordlessly placed an arm around my waist and helped me to my feet.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, in a voice so choked with mucus I sounded like a robot. Gross. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yeah, man, I'm--um, I guess I just needed to do that. I hope it's okay that I came. I wasn't sure if I should or not."

He responded by giving me a slight nod of understanding and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "I'm glad you were here today, Lizzie. I know she is too."

"You want me to give you a few minutes alone with her?"

His tired face slowly morphed into a "no." "Nah, I'm gonna come back tomorrow after they've finished with the burial and everything. Besides, it's like my ma used to say when we'd go visit her sister's grave--'her body may be down here, but her soul's up there.'" He pointed to the sky, which had continued to clear throughout the afternoon and was now a patched quilt of blue and grey. Through my puffy eyes I swore I saw hints of Jess' smile shine down with the sun's rays and come to rest right where we stood.

"Okay. You cool to head back to your place, then?"

"Yeah. I need a nap before I take ya to the airport. Gimme one sec."

He walked over to the open grave by himself, and pulling a small flower out of his pocket pressed it to his lips. I quickly turned around before he threw the flower on top of the coffin. At least one moment of this terrible day needed to belong solely to the two of them. About a minute passed before I once again heard Don's footfalls in the grass behind me, and we began a heavy-shouldered march away from the grave.

Upon reaching the paved road, I said my goodbyes to the CSI team. In between hugs, I thanked them for their kindness over the weekend and promised to call more often. I meant it, too. We needed to find better excuses for getting together than the murder of a damn good cop. They wished me a safe journey back to Boston, and I assured them that they were welcome up North anytime. Flack and I watched them all walk away, gazing perhaps a little longer than normal at the sight of Mac's hand intertwined with Stella's. I shook my head, smiling. _Even in the wake of death, love survives_. Don and I began our own trek back to the parking lot.

Suddenly, we heard the sound of high heels hitting the ground behind us, as if someone were running. A voice rang out, breathless and frightened. "Donny?" it said. Flack whirled around, and I followed suit.

Samantha Flack stood before us, and I guessed that she'd seen better days. Her hair looked lifeless and dull, and her fingernails were just a bit too long for comfort. Her black dress was somewhat wrinkled and I could see a tiny crosshatch pattern on her cheek from what I supposed was her pillow. But her eyes were bright and clear--not one blood vessel showed signs of having swelled from drinking. "Sam?!" Flack's surprise was genuine.

"Donny, I--I just wanted to see if I could find you here. I know I've been a real screw-up lately, and I know you're probably mad at me, but--"

Flack ran to his sister and took her in his arms, cutting her off. "Sammy, Sammy, shhhhh. It's my fault, okay? I never shoulda pushed you away or tried to come down on ya when you needed my help. I was just so scared of losin' you, I didn't know what to do. I was an idiot."

Sam began to cry. "I'm so sorry she's gone, Donny. She was such a good cop, and I knew she cared about you. Even though I was drunk the night she decided not to bust me, I could hear it in her voice, the way she talked about you. I saw in the paper that she'd been shot, and I just wanted to see if you were all right. I know things have been messed up between us for a while, but I don't wanna lose my big brother, Don. I'm gettin' better, I promise--just please don't give up on me."

Soon Flack was in tears too. "I'm here, kiddo. I ain't goin' anywhere." He held his sister close, placing her head on his shoulder as the two of them leaned on each other to cry. So that Don and Sam could have some privacy, I walked down the path for a bit and found a bench. As I gazed upon the endless rows of headstones stretching out before me, I was deeply struck by Jess' enduring impact on the world. Although her body lay in the ground not two hundred yards from where I sat, she was still bringing people together--still using that smile of hers to heal old wounds between a brother and sister that desperately needed each other.

A few minutes later, the two Flacks came walking down the path. Their tear-stained faces looked exhausted, but there was something new in Flack's eyes. Something I hadn't seen all weekend. Hope. Don brought Sam to me and I pulled her close. "Sam, sweetheart," I whispered, "it's good to see you." She said nothing, but squeezed me tightly, and I was encouraged. Despite all she had been through, I could still feel the core strength of her muscles deep within her arms. I felt a surge of optimism course through my own veins, and I knew she would make it back from the precipice she'd been teetering on for so long.

Don broke the silence, protectively placing an arm back around his sister. "Liz, Sammy's gonna come back to the apartment with us," he said, definitively. "She might stay with me for a while."

"Two Flacks under one roof, huh?" I quipped, extremely gently. "All right, let's roll."

Don began driving back towards his apartment, his hands shaking a bit as he manned the steering wheel. Sam asked a few questions about the funeral, and her brother let me do most of the talking. He piped up about the Mayor's eulogy, though. "I was a little worried, since Jess never even met the guy--but I think he did a decent job. Lookin' forward to seein' those blue lights shinin' for her."

When we reached the apartment, Sam and Flack disappeared into Don's bedroom and closed the door. I spent the next twenty minutes packing my suitcase, continuing a long Ryder family tradition of getting ready at the last minute. As I put the last pair of socks in its proper place and zipped up my bag, Flack and his sister emerged from the bedroom. I marveled at how similar they looked--surely such striking facial features had never been seen on another pair of siblings. Sam sat on the couch, and Flack looked at me while clasping his hands together. "Lizzie, you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'm good." I was concerned, though, and wanted some reassurance. "So, you guys gonna hang out together for a few days?"

Flack nodded, tentatively. "I think so. You think it's a good idea?"

I saw no reason not to speak frankly. "Well, you're both going through a lot, obviously, and in some cases that would worry me, but I think you two need each other right now." I looked at Sam. "I mean, I wouldn't recommend that you ditch your apartment and move in here, but you guys have a lot of catching up to do and it seems like a good way to do that would be to share space for a little while. Sam, I think Don can really help you with your recovery, maybe go with you to a meeting or help you find a good counselor. . .and Flack, I think Sam will be a great comfort as you try to make sense of what happened to Jess. Just be honest with yourselves--if you're driving each other nuts, then take a break. But yeah, I think it's a good idea. Lemme know if you need help--or a referee for that matter."

Brother and sister smiled and nodded their heads in unison, in the exact same fashion. Flack looked at his watch, and I knew it was time to go. I sat down next to Sam on the couch and took her hand. "Sweetie, you're doing a really brave thing, asking for help. I know you'll make it out of this mess. You're gonna look back on all of this someday and it'll seem like a bad dream--because your life will be so much better than it is now. Good luck." "Thanks, Liz," she said. "Come back to New York soon, ya hear?" She hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek. I grabbed my bags, and as Flack and I stepped through his doorway I saw Sam begin to pull a brush through her tangled hair.

Our drive to the airport was spent discussing the two women that had slipped in and out of Flack's life in the past week. We both agreed that while Sam looked a little beat up, the absence of alcohol in her system was incredibly encouraging. Flack was worried, though. "What if I can't help her, Lizzie? I mean, what if we just slip back into that same old crap and start fighting again?"

"Well, shit happens with families, D. I know it's scary, but just think about how wonderful it is to have been given a second chance. The fact that Sam sought you out means she wants things to get better--both with her drinking and with your relationship. Just remember, she needs her big brother Donny right now, not big bad Detective Flack of the NYPD."

"Right." He drove on, chewing his lip a little bit as his brain tried to process Sam's arrival. We had about ten minutes left in the drive, and so I did what shrinks do best--I asked how he was feeling about the day. "So. . .did your fears from this morning come true? Did today make her death real?"

Flack was silent for a long time. Then finally he spoke. "Well, you know I thought I wasn't gonna be able to do it--listen to all of the songs and prayers and speeches, not to mention carry her on my back. And I know I cried a lot today, so obviously somethin' inside me realized that she isn't comin' back. But when I listened to the two ministers, the Commish and the Mayor, I realized how many peoples' lives she touched and I felt better. I mean, even though nobody else knows exactly how I feel, somehow it's a little better now that I know how many other people are hurtin' too."

He took a breath and continued. "I know I'm not done cryin', and I know some days are gonna be worse than others, like when football season starts and she's not sittin' next to me watchin' the Giants game. But I'm just gonna try and do what I gotta do to keep goin' for her. And I got Sam to take care of now, which is somethin' I know Jess would've wanted me to do."

I agreed. "Yep. Just don't forget to take care of yourself, okay? You did right by Jess today, and I know you'll do right by Sam too. But don't be the tough guy--make sure you ask for help if you need it. I'm always here if you need me."

By this time we had reached LaGuardia's Departures drop-off row, and Flack turned to me, placing both of his hands on top of my own. "I wanna thank you for comin' down here this weekend, Liz. I couldn't have done it without ya."

As I stared into his beautiful blue eyes, I longed to tell him what I had shoved to the back of my mind the entire weekend--and indeed, since we'd met two years ago. No matter how hard I tried to fight it, the feeling rose again and again. I loved him. I always had. Our time together had never been just about wine and casual sex for me, much as I attempted to pretend otherwise.

But my love was not what Flack needed right now. He had enough love for Jess in his heart to last ten lifetimes, and I'd be damned if I was gonna get in the way of that. Today was about Detective Jessica Angell, not Doctor Elizabeth Ryder. For me to interrupt Don's recovery with proclamations of adoration would be horribly, horribly selfish. No, what Don needed right now was someone to walk beside him as he navigated the long path away from Thursday's tragedy. Someone to offer an arm and help him up if he stumbled while helping his sister cast out the ghosts of dependency. Someone with a soothing voice to restore sanity over the phone at two in the morning.

So for one of the few times in my life, I kept my damn mouth shut. I thought about my promise to Jess' father and knew that even if it meant my own heartache, I would honor that promise and care for his daughter's love.

I got out of the car and pulled my suitcase from the trunk, then faced Flack for the last time. I played the part of the annoying authority figure, wagging a finger in his direction. "None of that macho bullshit, okay? You call if you need anything."

"I will, Doc. I promise." He spread his arms wide and enveloped me in a hug. His body felt tired, yet relaxed. I hoped the day's events would leave him be as he attempted to sleep tonight. I soaked in as much of his embrace as I could, and then pulled away. "Thank you, Lizzie," he said, bending down and kissing my cheek. I tried not to close my eyes in rapture, instead opting to utter, "See ya, Flack," and gently touch my hand to the side of his face before stepping up onto the curb. He got back in his car and drove away, sticking his left arm out the window to wave goodbye.

I stood there outside of the JetBlue entrance for a few seconds, touching the spot on my cheek where he'd brushed his lips. Then, shaking my head, I chastised myself internally. _Knock it off, Liz. You know what you have to do._ Perhaps someday I would confess my love to Flack. But today was not that day. _Don't worry, Jess,_ I thought. _He's all yours for as long as he needs to be._ With a renewed resolve to always help my friend in need, I picked up my bag, turned, and walked through the airport terminal's sliding doors.


End file.
